Night Sounds

"Pooh woke up suddenly with a sinking feeling. He
had had that sinking feeling before, and he knew
what it was. He was hungry."

Some minor confrontation at the compose pile. I'd had the windows open wide and the AC wasn't running because Black Dell was asleep. I shot a couple of marbles in that direction. Not dogs, several critters scurried off into the leaf-litter. I turned on the lamp at my writing place and a Luna Moth appeared outside the window. A lovely thing, but beating herself to death against the glass. So I go out and catch her in my butterfly net ($2 at Big Lots, and I don't know how I lived without it, you can catch almost anything in a butterfly net) and release her out back, into the dark, so she could do what she was supposed to do, pollinate Passion Vines or something. I didn't touch her, they have a sensitive coating, but I did look at her for a while. By then I was fully awake (2:23) and decided to fix a fitting breakfast. Fried some shredded potatoes in their designated 6" cast iron skillet, fried a perfect egg in chicken fat, made toast; I didn't make coffee, it was just too damn early, and got just a nip of the Maple Knob Creek, ended up pouring that on my toast (excellent) and getting a shot of straight whiskey. Sitting at the island, with a book of maps held open by a fossil, 3:30 in the morning, I'm not that different from anyone else. I do read poetry, which might be viewed as a crime, and B has a manuscript copy of Skip Fox's latest book, in the meantime I read some Stephen Ellis, which completely blows me away. These are two of the best writers in the language, and I know them, I've fed them; that's a point of information, I take no credit. The fact remains that these folk end up at my house for dinner, and I can usually pull a fried rabbit out of my hat. Or something.

I have to laugh:

Fireflies singing
in the night
darby, darby loo.