The house is quieter than usual and full of sun. Somebody lowers a spade into the earth. At a late juncture I begin to study cats and, by extension, cat people. Chrisoula is speaking on the far side of a field full of mist, there is a blue light behind her, and I am not afraid that I cannot hear.
Three happy kids, what a fairytale! I write through the morning, diligently aiming for idleness as always. The phone rings, it's Trudge saying is it okay to deliver hay tomorrow. There were a dozen or more swallows on the phone wires looking at me and our shared past life was emotionally vivid but otherwise unspecified. So you're a bum narrator, so what?
Between the horse pasture and the river is a little skip of forest, partially owned by us, partially owned by the town, where three days ago I tossed the neighbor's dead hen. Falling apples. Scattering lime on the compost, letting later thunderstorms work it in. When you are hurt, it is okay to ask for help, which I somehow translated into "ask for help making it hurt more," a very fucked up thing but I am what I am, I guess. Tomatoes and basil on corn wraps, eaten standing, as always.
Men who like the sound of their own voice and think they are liking intelligence, wisdom, insight. Let us calmly ascend the gallows and pray we make a pretty corpse. Cloudless.
I like the sound of fans, it helps me sleep. Harvesting begins in earnest - mostly greens and early squash, but the raspberries too - and you remember that you, too, are being harvested. Pray a rosary for Jesus and hold a good thought for the poor!
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