Coincidence

The three crows were not happy, yesterday, that I didn't have micro-waved mice for them in the morning. The mice have moved outdoors, I haven't caught one in weeks, but try and explain that to a crow. This morning there was birdshit all over the Jeep. I only noticed it, walking over to the head of the driveway to look at some spectacular clouds in the east. The sun was just breaking above them, the mocking bird was singing the towhee phrase, a lovely morning in every regard, except that the crows were there, in the half-dead tree that marks the beginning of the path to the graveyard. And they were messing with me, flapping their wings and cawing. Crows are smart birds. The word 'birdbrain' springs to mind, what I was called at various points in my life, which ended when the jocks, in high school, liked me, because the cheerleaders told them I was cool. I suppose I was, though a recluse even then. Not a complete recluse, I was the state champion public speaker, several times, but I spent a lot of time alone. In Portsmouth, Virginia, where, for the first time, I could go to the library by myself, I'd take home the legal limit. Raymond Carver hated to write, but loved to rewrite. I'm just the opposite. Though it probably would be more accurate to say that the writing and the rewriting happen within a single fixed period. Indeterminate period. Longer than you might think; but because I have those periods, long spaces of time, that I can just toss around; look up words, dance a dervish, maybe speak in tongues or spend an hour with a comma. We should get the first vine-ripened local tomatoes tomorrow. Tomato sandwiches, with just mayo, salt and pepper, a bowl of kimchee on the side. I always carry a small bottle of Andy's hot sauce, in case I get stuck somewhere, an elevator or something, I might have some crackers, hidden in a pocket, we could talk. Later, I get up to pee and turn off the AC, there's an owl, then a train, over in Kentucky. It's a great duet. Heart wrenching in the dark. Either the blues or a very depressing country song. I use my headlamp to go get a wee dram and roll a smoke, sink back into the shadow, listen to the night sounds. Farmer's market tomorrow (later today) and the sweet corn is in. I make a dish, fried corn with bacon, peppers, and onions that have been caramelized; also, a creamed corn soup that I usually serve cold, with a dollop of sour cream. Sweet corn and local tomatoes, done died and gone to heaven. The next eight or ten weeks is all about local vegetables. I put some things aside, some turnips, some sweet potatoes, and dry some tomatoes and mushrooms. Next winter seems manageable. I make a ratatouille to die for, and I know when to press my case. I can surf a standing wave forever. Heat lightening, I'd better go.