Gavotte

A festive jig. A keg of Christmas ale. Credit where credit is due. One of those early fall days, clear and cooler, a brisk breeze all day, and the leaves are starting to fall. It's a dance: the leaves on the tip, then branches, then whole trees swaying. A small moon, centered above, and there is no sound, other than bugs and frogs. I think I invent my world, but there it is. Again. Listen. Nothing that isn't part of the natural world. Laundry, for instance; I fold my underwear, therefor I exist. Miles leaves out almost everything. The beauty of it. I was reading some recipes from Marjorie Rawlings' Cross Creek Cookbook which led to rereading her Cross Creek, both of which I love. I love her like I love MFK Fisher. Reminded me about a letter Maxwell Perkins had written to her, so I had to reread his letters to find it; and suddenly the day was over. Still no phone, which seems ridiculous even by my standards. Two weeks of nice weather and they can't send someone out? One of my readers, Michael, the Music Guy at the university, ask me what was up with my writing, why there wasn't any. I explained the phone situation. He said he was only asking because he always called his mother and read her the day's post, and she had called him because he hadn't been calling. He recommended that I get a satellite hook-up. Easy for him to say, but I'd need to get new equipment and learn a new system. I can do that, I remind myself, but it's still intimidating. I do have to live in the world. I'm not often horribly inappropriate, but I do have a streak that compels me to say what's on my mind. When it leads to words, I'm at a distinct advantage, just because finding out about words was always so important to me. A military brat, you moved around a lot. I always had a dictionary. And all those Classics Illustrated comics probably had an influence. But I never wanted to wear a cape. I was just trying to follow the plot.