Constant Thunder

Summer daze. Squall lines moving through. A close lightning strike in the early afternoon produces the loudest round of thunder I've ever heard, feared my windows would shatter. Power on and off. The house shaking. For all that, it's a fine day. The green wood is dripping water and the sound of that is a calming thing. There's a quiet place, beneath the noise of nature, a centered place, where noise makes sense, and the spaces between are precious. I suspect I could find the same balance in an urban setting, but I'm a country boy. I crush leaves almost every day, to see what they smell like. The geese have taken over the swimming area at Roosevelt Lake. No one goes in the water because it's rich in goose shit. It's like a Monet painting, the swimmers are blanketed, up the slope, and the geese control the shallows. It's not a symbol, it's a metaphor for something hot and steamy. What we did on the blankets before we used the waters. I was thinking about that, considering how I'd cook this road-killed goose. I hate plucking birds. But I pluck this bird and save various organs. You have to make gravy, that's a given, using body parts. It's a small bird, maybe 10 lbs. live weight. I didn't try and kill it, but had stopped at the lake to feed some excess buns, left over from a noon-time music event at the museum, to the various waterfowl. This one was greedy and ran in front of the truck as I was leaving, and I clipped her head with my bumper. Felt bad, but threw her in the bed. I want, for myself, just a skinless breast and thighs, but I could use some goose fat, for cooking other things, and the dog would certainly eat everything else. Bad idea, in terms of the mess, because it's raining and I have to do all this indoors. A Third World scene from the Food Network. At one point I have the skin and various lumps of cavity fat rendering in a kettle, another pot cooking unwanted bits and bones for the dog, and, finally, a breast and thighs that I want to grill with a butter and lime concoction that I invent on the spot. I advise you don't do this, it's a fucking mess and takes forever. I end up with a jar of goose fat, less than a cup, a couple of days of dog food (added corn meal at the end), and two dinners that are really spectacular but required every pot in the house and all the flat surfaces. Big birds are a greasy mess. I'd rather eat crow. You impale them on a stick, roast them, and pick the meat with your fingers, not good, but not that bad. 24 blackbirds baked in a pie. Rolling thunder. Random lightning strikes. I have to go, dawn is breaking.