Last night I stole the Angel's Share, and spent the the day in a fog, and later, a haze.
Went to Wabash for chicken feed (yes, really) and back. I saw some birds that deserved much more attention than I could muster.
There were two red tails, both in flight, one soaring, the other hanging in the air as it made to a perch in a roadside tree.
There were four kestrels, all on wire, and three flushed briefly as I passed. One was a big girl (sorry, female) and I went into a brief coma, imagining her on a bow perch in my livingroom.
I saw two Great Egrets, hunted to near extinction a century ago for their feathers. My vain darling.
And a Great Blue Heron, living proof that dinosaurs evolved into birds, and seeing one fly will transport you to the Triassic, so watch your back.
I saw a gorgeous little goldfinch drinking from a puddle in a church parking lot, surely the best use of any of the property, ever.
I once went to a BBQ chicken dinner at this country church. BBQ, of course, isn't about red sauce, but smoke-cooking, and the food was great. It was ruined by a loud, arrogant barrel of industrial-grade prison lube, and if I were to be charged with not throttling this alleged person, I would plead no contest. The least I could have done was smack him, or shove a chicken carcass up his ass. (Oops! Did I say that? I meant down his throat. Where is my White-Out?)
This evening I was standing at a grave and was bitten by a line from an old song. It was by the First Edition, which made a pretty good song before Kenny Rodgers swelled in the head, and they became Kenny Rodgers and the First Edition, and wasted tons of irreducible vinyl on the execreble "Ruby (Don't Take Your Love to Town)", by Mel Tillis, who should have been hanged.
But I heard "I pushed my soul in a deep dark hole and I followed it in".
I didn't do the pushing, but I've spent 50-odd years scratching, and clawing, trying to get it out.
I stood at the head of Krystle's grave, and looked up on a gorgeous August evening's sky, big, high clouds, and I wept.
For little Krystle, surely, whose living hell ended one chilly night in early June when she tackled a semi in front of her home. She was 14, beautiful, quiet, and kind, and her life was so unbearable, and so unlivable, and with no place for a little girl to turn, she chose to step into a hog truck.
It's easy to cry for Krystle, but it doesn't help her, and maybe the tears are for a world that does this to a little girl. Because she's cold in the ground, and the reason is walking, living, breathing.
Good night, and sleep tight.