Night Soungs

Could have been coyotes or just a pack of feral canids, but they were hard on the trail of something; then a train across the river. There's a limestone escarpment and several million years of scree that forms a floodplain south of me, in Kentucky, maybe four miles as the crow flies. There's a grassy verge, coming off the slope, then the river-road, then the railroad tracks, built on a sturdy dike, then a strip of land that varies in width from almost nothing to a quarter-mile or more of river silt; farmland and foolish towns that demand protection against flooding from the Army Corp of Engineers. When the leaves are off the trees, the whole huge space becomes a sounding board, and if it's still, I can hear the trains quite clearly. Mostly coal, going to the power plants that dot the river. On the Vineyard, though we were several miles from the harbor, wintertime, we could hear foghorns and the late ferry. The occasion of sound when it had been previously quiet. An intrusion, of sorts. Something that wakes me, or stirs me from a reverie. I go ahead and get up, make a double espresso, change from sweats to Carhartt bibs, I need to see where the sun is, after this change in time. My clock is where the sun strikes the wall across from my bed. It's a crude system, but I like it's inaccuracies, the nuance of light. From old habit I'm usually early anyway. And always carry a book. It's hard to be bored with Derrida in your pocket, mulling over a particular sentence, wondering what the translator meant by a specific comma. I read back over myself, looking for the thread. It's usually fairly obvious, what concerned me at the moment. I strive for transparency. I have a note to that effect, posted on the wall in front of me. Strive for transparency. A mantra that no longer makes any sense. Sense is such a relative thing. Sleep again, then waking up without a clue what time, or even what day it is; another big breakfast, eggs on toast with green chili salsa, then outside to split some wood. Another nap, another meal, and I managed to confuse myself into another time zone. Besides, Daylight Savings Time means I can have a beer at the pub and still get home before dark. And it's warmer, too warm, actually, and I don't have a fire all day. I have to remember to go to the basement of the library to get tax forms and booklets. A few hundred bucks there, and D agreed to go over to the retirement home with me on Friday and hang their six pieces for $175, which we will split down the middle. Should take us an hour. I sense a really good zinfandel in my future. Pegi asked me to make a pate, for the "Cream Of The Crop" opening in June, and I'm hesitant, because of the timing, it's a big show to sort and install, but a pate would be better if I made it a week ahead, so I agree. More than happy to use someone else's money to fix something I like. I started thinking about a very good pate and what I'd need. Some of that 'bitter pepper' from Turkey, or some turmeric as an anti-oxidant. Believe me when I say I have friends in strange places. I could probably call you on your private line, the number wasn't that hard to find, we're so vain.