Last Anything

Extinction. Lost languages or large cats. Up again before dawn because a friend had sent some off-prints that I couldn't find the time to read last night. Strange, that I couldn't find the time, but I was busy right up until the moment that I fell asleep on the sofa. I'd walked down to the mailbox, looking for mushrooms. Wonderful thick heavy Boletes, and Chanterelles scattered on the well-drained knobs, and then I had to deal with what I'd harvested. I had to get clean. Dried sweat, blood, pollen, the dust that arises when you crush leaves walking on the verge; every wrinkle of my skin is embedded with dirt. I used three gallons of water, which is a huge amount for me, to lather up and rinse. Clean loose cotton pants and a sleeveless tee, a ceiling fan; a nice plate of finger food. This time of year I buy one of those small sliced rye breads and often take over an hour to make a plate of bites that unless I invoke a Zen restraint I can easily eat in ten minutes. Roasted kale with goat cheese, mushroom gravy, water cress and sweet butter, charred sardines, and this time of year, the tomatoes. It's so good. I eat a lot of sweet pickles in the summer. One day I buy a bottle of gin, buy a bag of ice I put in a cooler, and a two-liter bottle of tonic. I spend the entire day imagining what it must be like to be a person that sits on the back porch and drinks gin and tonic. The fox appears on the path. I roll it some apples. We seem to have a relationship. Her kits must be two months old now, frisky, but staying close to the den. I took a dead fox of the road recently, cut it open, to allow predator access, and checked the liver. The quick and easy test for the health of an animal is to look at the liver. I carry paper towels and disposable gloves. I went to town, with the fucking list, got the TP and the Q-tips, and picked up a non-dairy creamer because the larger size was cheaper than the smaller size and I needed one of those in the larder in case I got snowed in. I get an extra chicken broth, and some cans of beans because they're very cheap (10 for $5), and a gallon can of pre-mixed wheat flour that promises six loaves of bread with just the addition of water. Stopped at Big Lots for another plastic bin. It's fun to put together a 20-day survival bin, listening to West African slack guitar. I'm still awake when Beal Street Caravan comes on the radio, so I get a drink and roll a smoke. This particular show is Black Church Music and it's killer. Big Roy took me to his church a couple of times, Duck Hill, Mississippi; first time I ever saw an electric guitar in the pulpit. I was treated as an honored guest. Roy and I cooked for the congregation. These were good times. Hearing gospel music become the blues. Eventually I sit in the dark, help me, I pray, it's a very thin line.