Laundry Day

All the dirty clothes (I'm selective when I have to walk in and out), the linens, kitchen towels, bath towels; three double loads, huge for me, as I usually do one single load. Also ten of the denim shirts, I'll do another ten next time. There are another three or four that need to be retired to that space where I keep condemned shirts, waiting for one last nasty job before being thrown away. Ditto for jeans. The house smells fresh, I opened windows today, and vacuumed, and when I closed up, for the evening, the place smelled pleasant, with undertones of bacon and smoke. Stop at the museum, D and I talk strategy, logistics; the next couple of weeks are busy. I've noticed, as I don't have an office, that everyone sits on their ass most of the time, I wonder what they're doing, how it could take two days to write a one paragraph press release. Thank god I don't say anything, because I couldn't do their job. And they couldn't do mine. This repacking, unpacking, is a studied behavior, and requires staying on your feet. Lunch at the pub, a few minutes of basketball on the big screen; I check my punch-list, a folded sheet of paper with notes in short-hand, enlist D's help in a couple of things, verify priorities. On my way home I notice the streams are running clear, no fines, and wonder how many acre feet of soil is washed away. Many, certainly: there's an entire delta, ephemeral, at the mouth of the Scioto, that will be gone tomorrow. The drainage cycle. We hardly notice we are being washed away. I play with this, in an inconsequential way, occasionally place sticks horizontal to the flow; dams of sort, that collect a deposit of the extremely local. Run-off. Went to Big Lots during the wash cycle, because I figured there would be remaindered dog food. Two weeks of kibbles for four bucks. I should eat this stuff, cut way down on the food budget. Dog meets me at the barricade, where stumps block access any further (I can't have people driving over my frogs), and I explain to her that if she nips at my grocery bags one more time, I will kill her. Fucking dogs. Transparent isn't enough. Snow-Bells and Crocus in the median only promise Spring. Buds, what do they know? We could get a foot of snow tomorrow. But the ground is warm and it would melt. Can't deny we've turned a corner here. Listen to the birds. Way too close to the bone, but I have survived another winter. Coda: barely. My wood supply is completely depleted, another cold snap would have me burning furniture. Right at the edge, but I swear it's not design, not where I intended to be, I'd choose the easier path, if there was an option. There isn't. I have to do whatever this is. Out of the blue, a single crow. What do you make of that?