More Rain

Rained all night, thank god I'd parked at the bottom, then rained all day, often hard. Minor flooding, but the Army Corp had dropped the river level and this ridge-and-hollow terrain drains quickly. The box turtles are on the move, their burrows must be flooded, and I stop to move four of them off the road, guessing they're headed to higher ground. Nearly rear-ended by the Park Ranger, who apologizes profusely when he sees what I'm doing. We talked turtle for a few minutes and he looked at me strangely, asked if I was a biologist, I laughed, and told him no, I was just a turtle-hugger. A good day at the museum because we took in some interesting work for the juried show, AND I got the red wall repainted in what might be a single coat. Unbelievable, but whatever this new generation of primer, and it is high in solids, is amazing. The wall is almost perfect and I thought I was looking at two more coats. Caught Terry on the sidewalk, coming back from lunch, and we discussed my cooking on his roof. It's a gas grill and I'm not that used to them, and I explain that the ribs will take two hours or more and I'll need that much gas. Several great water-colors have come in. The bar is set higher now, for this show, the quality of work is better. Samara calls and we talk about the future: my future framed by several cords of dry firewood, her future is unlimited possibilities. Last rumble of thunder from the tail-end of a long line of storms. I set up the candles and an oil-lamp at my reading station on the island just before the power fails, put a small flashlight in my pocket, either the quality of mercy, or what passes as preparation. eat a cold can of beans and a can of Mandarin Orange segments. The frogs break out in an ear-shattering chorus and I know the weather is past, but I sit in the dark for a long time before I ever strike a light, considering what constitutes a life well-lived. The high point of my day, other than a couple of short conversations with Sara about the nature of art, was when I had two box turtles on the passenger seat of the truck, searching for higher ground. They were both beautiful, orange and yellow and black, washed by rain, radiant and withdrawn, and I'm trying to decide what they intended. Obviously, I can't. I'm not a turtle. I guess at turtleness, turtleology, but I don't have a clue. I stop and put them where I think they want to be and imagine myself a superior being. I should imagine I have the sense of turtle because I have two of them next to me, on the seat, but they're not talking. Fucking turtles.