Raindrops fall on the windshield. They trickle upward on my page as I sit in the parking lot, writing. My words float. Cheap drunk.
The inmates of my inbox have taken over the asylum. I am lost in the labyrinth.
Went to sleep a curled question mark; woke up a chambered nautilus.
Story skeletons on the floor of my mind need to find an all-you-can-read buffet of fattening words.
Its feet in the impossible green of oats, wheat and rye, the grand oak breathes and stretches through early morning mist to sky. Tree Tai Chi.
When Mother called, “Mary BETH, come down from that tree.” I pulled in skinny legs, hugged my book, and became a branch, silent & still.
I awoke with the memory of Aunt Lou Ella’s fried peach pies on my tongue. Funeral food. Has one of my mother’s people died in Mississippi?
Sometimes a morning surprises. This one, for example. There is a weak light. No wind. No rain. Tropical Storm Ida is gone.
Buck’s face and neck swelled, bubbled up red in hives, turned hot. Put him to bed with Benadryl and ice. Deepwoods Off on freshly shaven face.
Black snake stripped of its skin, but for random small patches, and partly eaten. Looks like fresh grouper. Did I interrupt someone’s meal?
