Libretto

The soprano, laments, "I know he's fucking the waitress at the Dairy Bar." Black-out, curtain. Act Two, night, a flickering fire, tree-frogs, shadows on the scrim, voice-over describes a fox hunting voles. B came over, bringing back a book, we talk about cooking lamb. We're on the same page, one to one, the usual elliptic conversation. In an hour we manage to discuss a dozen things, specifically don't talk about others. A wee dram and silence. Waiting, waiting, waiting; then we talk about pumping water. I've studied water. That strange guy, with a beret, on the other side of the spillway. Patterns, habits, channels; they bear something in common. I used a word somewhere and it's completely changed my meaning. It happens. When you pay too much attention. Bare. The thread B said I usually found. I can't attest to that. Mostly what I do is flush steers out of hollows. It's not that difficult, once you get used to it. Pile driving man. At this point, I only do the difficult, everything else is pap.