Dog Pack

I could hear them coming, half of them hounds, from far away. The pack is still mostly intact. An alpha-male that I don't like, a pit-bull cross, and four or five followers. A radical sect of feral Baptists. I ran them off with a couple of firecrackers. Beautiful waning moon, a wee dram of Sheep Dip, I don't want for much. Mostly I imagine things with my eyes closed, my mind's eye. Black, as Dina said, is seldom black, it's usually red or blue. Overcast but blue behind it, so I drive into town, a couple bags for the Goodwill, some trash for the public receptacles, some plastic to recycle, then a stop at the library. I don't even stop at the pub, but right home to more fried potatoes and a new Thomas Perry novel. It's difficult to imagine a more perfect evening. I'd stopped at the bank, to verify all checks had cleared. I'd saved, to pay land taxes and vehicle insurance, and I was actually a few bucks ahead, so I stopped by the liquor store and bought a nice single-malt, a Glendronach, unplugged the phone, and killed the breaker for the fridge. Snowing, just a bit, and the sound is dampened, not even a fire in the stove, no wind; the house is closed up, it's winter after all, and I feel slightly guilty to feel so comfortable. I reread Guy Birchard's Hecatomb, thinking about how poetry requires ten or twelve readings. My passion for Basho, or Emily, is deeply driven. I don't know what that means, exactly, but I spent an entire night recently checking a very good gloss against plants that Basho had mentioned. I'm reading Thoreau's fucking Journals, for god's sake, and it's a botanical list. Before I settled in I made a Mac and Cheese, with sausage, peppers and onions, that should last a couple of days. The Thomas Perry novel is quite good, absolutely first class entertainment; a warm thick glass bowl of Mac and Cheese in your lap, enough light to read by; done died and gone to heaven.