Making Sense

Matrix of sights. Rain all day and the woods are washed clean of dust and pollen. The Pawlonia, with its large leaves, is especially green. For several hours I wander around the house staring out the various windows, listening to the patter on the roof and watching water drip through the trees. The yearling squirrels are frisking about, despite the weather, in that wonderful way they have of mixing work and play. Between the bouts of drizzle and rain, a few birds scratch around on the forest floor (of which I can see some, now, after many months of green invisibility) but the bugs are silent. The frogs disappeared, because of the summer drought, but I suspect there's a contingency plan, as there usually is in nature. I remember that there's a package of frog legs in the freezer and get them out. Kroger had a bin of them a few months ago, and I bought several braces. Very large legs, two to a pack, from France. What would a frog farm look like? Like a Mississippi catfish farm? Discreet concrete pools with walkways between? Terraced pools, like rice patties in China? You could probably raise fine frogs in rice patties, using them as bug control. I'd picked up one of those raw vegetable platters, with the Ranch Dressing in the middle, that was reduced in price because the vegetables were a little wilted, but they make a fast and easy stir-fry; the frog legs I just saute in butter and olive oil, de-glaze the pan and pour that over them. A fine meal for a slightly dirty, unshaven hermit. I'm harvesting rainwater, as we speak, I'll wash up and shave later, but I'm comfortable right now, in the way I feel and smell. I read through the script for the Emily Project, and had some odd thoughts about Emily sitting at a piano, striking the odd discordant note. She turned on the bench and faced the audience directly, read from a letter, then turned back to the keyboard, glanced over to the musician behind her, and gave/gives us a poem. Phone is out again, so I don't know when I'll be able to send. The price I pay for watching leaves dance in the wind. A difficult afternoon, dealing with my inadequacies. A father, a mate, merely a diner, I struggle for position. I'm neither one thing nor another. I can hear rain before it falls, it's not a gift, but a curse. B comes over for a drink, we talk about Emily, and a few other poets, and he thinks I'm writing well. The fines move downhill.