Saturday, September 16, 2006—Early Evening

Today the wind is insane. It has slammed car doors, blown trash all over the roads, and basically wreaked havoc on trying to get around in any sensible way. By the time I’ve gotten from car to building today my hair looked like a crazy bee’s hive. Yet it’s hot—the air-- and muggy even. My apartment is warm and somewhat insufferable, but I like fresh air, and I want a low electric bill, so I keep the door and window open.

I slept late again today and thought I might be too sick to get up, until I decided that that’s boring and depressing. So I got up, and Bo and I went to McDonald’s for our iced-tea refills. I decided that I felt better and that the best way I could show my faith in the Universe is to go to WalMart, have them put two new tires on my car, along with new windshield wipers, and write a hot check for all of it, knowing full-well the check will be covered somehow. The person interested in buying my refrigerator and giving me a windfall (no pun intended) to help pay for my tires, hasn’t responded. Oh well, I’ll get to update later on how all of this worked out so well. By the way, I added $20 worth of gas to my car too, so the Universe has a bit to cover now. I can’t wait.

The above painting "Dream Trees" I just donated to Woofstock to help animals, and this poem received Honorable Mention in Mikrokosmos in 2005.

Cheney Lake in Spring

It’s raining on the lake again.
All the people have gone away
but us. My little boy fishing,
I’m trying to cast my line out
far enough to impress him. I throw it
half way out to the buoy. We know
it’s no use. Not a fish nor even turtle is biting.
Instead the rain is pelting our heads.
For this three days we’ve stubbornly
stood out the rain. At least, there’s no lightning
this time. Just a long slow weeping of the sky
into the water. My girl is wringing the wetness
from her dog’s fur. She sits beside him
and brushes his coat with her hand,
to no avail. He is soaked like a sponge
but happy with her brushing.

We are together.
J.D. in the tent when all of us, dripping, enter.
We shed our clothes and crawl under covers to dry.
In midday we are silent as night.
The tent shudders, and water drops in rhythms.
The world is singing to us here,
lulling us into contentment.
We lie on sleeping bags and half sleep.

Last night, before the rains came a hoot owl
sat in the tree above us and cooed.
We awoke from our dreams to listen—
a song escaping from somewhere in the sky,
flying far up, up, over the rain, and out of our little lives.