Friday, March 11, 2011

Extra Yet.

Facing a complete failure to do much other than sleep and eat and engage occasionally in stopgap personal hygiene, the kid filling in for the hero of this tale walks outside and lights one more fire, a too-big fire, sits in his dry shed and wonders what the hell. The sleeping and eating are going marginally well. The hygiene—who knows. There was a shower at some point in the last 24 hours, so let's name that success. That big rain yesterday pulled through right at sunset and left everything dream-lit there at the end of the day, a phenomenon we only get a handful of times per year, not counting pop-up afternoon thunderstorms, which we are not counting. We are talking full systems setting in and then spinning on back out, leaving behind them the bottom of the sky through which the sun might set, stirring things like belief and hope and optimism and any number of other false gods. You want golden calves? We got 'em, cheap. Let me go talk to my manager. I think we can make you a deal.

March tries on all the weathers for size. Today: November, but for the greener grass. Yesterday there were times when one could have believed it would never stop raining. Tomorrow: Upper sixties and sunshine and probably a little breeze full of blooming Bradford pears and whatever these low pink bushes are we have here in the Gate City. We have those. Been so long since I lived anywhere else that I can't tell you what blooms there. Daffodils in the deeper south used to bloom on my highschool girlfriend's birthday. Up here they bloom a little later. Seemed like a sign then, and it seems like a sign now. Just for different things.

I'm reading the book out loud. Again. I am in desperate need of a project. If I take out the 'yet' in the second sentence, will that mean the difference between glory and abject sniveling defeat? Of course it will. It always comes down to that one word. We would have published the book, dear reader, but we couldn't get past that extra yet.

Doves and squirrels on the ground below the feeder. House finches and titmice on the feeder proper. Some daffodils in bloom, others on their way. If the phone does not ring soon I shall surely die.

No comments: