Bird Book

Can't find my damned bird book. High point of the day, we watched a Peregrine Falcon eat a pigeon. Excellent daytime drama. The bird lives in town, probably Covert Furniture's roof. City bird. Now we know why we don't have a pigeon problem (droppings on the front stoop) anymore. He was on the ground for at least half-an-hour, in one of those raised- bed curbs they plant with flowers, mulch heavily, that indicate an upscale parking area. People walking by, cars coming and going, D and I got within 10 feet, to make a positive identification. Duck Hawk, for sure, Falco Peregrinus. I've always loved the word peregrination, it sounds so nice. Peregrine, as an adjective, means alien, more of less, which fits. A beautiful bird. I have the correct edition of Frederick The Second's book on falconry, worth a good bit of money I imagine, a lovely large format thing, that the crew at The Cape Playhouse gave me when I was tending an orphan Sparrow Hawk. Smart birds, but I didn't want a pet, returned her to the wild. My history with relationships, or is that attachments? I wore out a mouse pad, and I wanted to make one or find one, so I went below the floodwall, right down on the lowest terrace, where the river laps. I take the kitchen shears (amazing tool, no home should be without them) because I want a piece of inner-tube, but I only want a piece, I don't want the whole tube, and I know the shears will cut rubber like butter. A square piece of inner-tube, tacked down with 4 small brass brads, is a wonderful mouse pad. Between the keyboard rock, and the inner-tube mouse pad, I'm giddy with accomplishment. I look forward to the weekend, what was I supposed to do? Read a book, chop wood, haul water. Right, right, I remember now. Load the pantry because winter is imminent and the wolves are circling. There is a sense in which I'm the most isolated I've ever been, no support, live by your wits. Not true, of course, even for me, I could call B's brother and he'd be here in a heart-beat. But I am alone here, and I think about that, being alone. Sometimes it is lonely, maybe I'll get a dog. I felt nasty all day, just say what comes natural. Oh, I just remembered, I wanted to tell you, Sneed thought grabbing asses was part of the job description. This was right at the crux of the feminist movement and he was fired, for good reason. He got a great severance package, but died soon after, killed by a bull shark, while surfing a standing wave in Chicago. Even if I were writing fiction, I'd just reconstruct events. It's easier that way, I don't have to lie. My stove is not acting well, I know the problem, and the solution is to lean out an upstairs window and beat the spark-arrestor stove-cap with a bamboo pole. It's not pretty, there's a lot of cursing involved. There's a door I can open, and insert a folded paper plate, that catches most of the flammable crap. Sometimes I beat the stove-pipe like a dervish, knocking down the creosote. I have a broken aluminum broom-stick I use for this. It's a merry rhythm, I do a kind of jig. I wouldn't call it dancing, much more spastic than that, a kind of hopping, as though my feet were burning. I was talking with Tammy about therapy, one of those "where's the audio cam?" moments, and I think we agreed that everyone is fucked up. Not to put words in even my mouth. Much less her mouth, which I can't imagine. Thank god I made a pot of chili. I must have been in a drunken haze last night, but this morning there is this magnificent pot of chili. I have a scoop on a fried egg, with a piece of toast to sop everything, and it's the best breakfast in forever. The crows are back. We're moving into winter.