Fluttersome

Butterflies high in the trees. I don't know where they go when it rains. It's supposed to be sunny tomorrow, before another couple of days of rain, so I might try and get to town to do the laundry. God knows everything is dirty, it's the air here, power plants along the river burning coal. The museum has a flat roof, though no flat roof is ever actually flat, they drain toward scuppers or pipes, and we had to go up there every couple of years, to scoop up particulate matter, to clear the drains. Upwind and a few miles from the river, the trees acting as filters, the ridge is somewhat better, but if I leave a bucket of rainwater sitting out for a extra day, there'll be some flecks of ash. Few things are completely clean. Quick trip to town, not enough time to do the laundry as another front is moving in. Get back home, just before the hard rain, and eat potato logs I got at the Qwik-Stop on the way out of town. These are very good with French mustard and hot sauce. Thunder and lightening, so I close down. Then take a nap, to the hammering on the roof. It's quite pleasant. Mickey Hart and those throat singers. When I wake it's so dark It's frightful, I can't see my hands, I can't see anything. I feel around for my slippers. I keep a candle at the edge of my desk, and a book of matches, and my headlamp, of course. Dead reckoning. When it's very dark, even a single candle provides quite a bit of light. In a total black-out there's no depth perception. If I'm being extravagant with light, I put another candle at the end of the island, that way I can avoid tripping over my own feet.