Late Night

Bugs and frogs, not that unpleasant, but what woke me was a tousle at the compost heap. A feral cat, it sounds like, and either a coon or a possum. A feral cat is always a contender. I open the back door and yell at them, ruby eyes, I see it is a coon, and they both hiss at me. When I come back with my slingshot, they're gone. Apparitions in the mist rising from the ground. River fog, fog that settles as a cloud, and ground fog; there are others, snow fog, fog that originates from large chunks of beached ice, fog that falls off a mountain. I stop and point a finger but it always seems inadequate to the task. My old hooked finger against whatever new thing there was. It's already August 4th, and I haven't changed the calendar yet. I made a note to change it tomorrow. August already, and I need to get some things done; still, I usually relocate the middle of September and manage to get through the following winter. In that regard, I'm ahead of schedule. Lunch with D and TR, then D and I retreat to B's place for a couple of beers and serious conversation about what constitutes art.

Ain't no midden high enough
ain't no grain so shocked,
that curled mustache
is merely for show.