Morning

The morning sun slid slant through the blinds. On the wall, where it spilled through the space at the side of the window, it made a pattern, the exact pattern of an unfleshed human spine, seen side-on; the dorsal wing of each vertebrae flaring upward.

I haven't seen you for a long time.

When I opened the cupboard door the salt-shaker fell out. It turned a somersault, so that when I caught it, just above the counter, it was perfectly upright in my hand. I swept a few grains of salt off the counter. I sometimes find my luck unnerving.

I couldn't be bothered with making coffee properly. I dumped some grounds and some chocolate into a cup of boiling water. With a teaspoon I skimmed off what skimmed easily, a couple minutes later, of the grounds; but I don't mind chewing on little bits of coffee bean in between sips.

I think of qB and of Sarsparilla, recently in Venice; I think of Dave in Plummer's Hollow, and Kurt in Tennessee. Good morning. (Good evening.)

The crows come down to the back porch. Yesterday I heard them cawing more loudly than usual, indignant, outraged. Went out back and saw that Christmas, our ancient dog, who could no more catch a crow than she could play the violin, was lying on the back porch, just below the rail where the food for the crows was set out. She's so deaf she might not have been able to hear the crows, but I got the impression she was enjoying riling them. The crows, meanwhile, complained bitterly. Yet another thing crows have in common with human beings: a huge sense of entitlement.

Bless you all. Another day. Good luck.