Hot hot hot off the presses….available at spdbooks.org
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have shoes with stable soles, fat and wide. They squash the green and hopeful frond half buried in fallen yellow apple leaves. A fern I cherish. Maybe cherish is overfrondly. Am frond of.
The roofers have a tank that puts out a flame with a hiss that would impress a dragon. I climb the ladder and watch. I thought there were more but there are only two roofers. One with the flaming wand, the other doing nothing, here for consultation, it seems. The greedy, lapping flame goes back and forth over the leaky corner, igniting satellite bursts, leaving curling tar smoke, again and again, back and forth. “Basta, basta,” I say convinced the house is about to ignite.
Having roofers on the roof is nerve-wracking. But less so when I am watching and not what-iffing. Still, I go back inside and put on Pablo Casals playing Bach cello suites which seem, say, suitable, to having roofers on the roof.
Kansas elected a Native American lesbian. A grand slam.
At irregular intervals there comes the knock of a guava falling onto the deck. So many, so underappreciated. Meanwhile on the other side of the house another apple falls, dislodged by a pair of squirrels. I rescue what I can of the bruised, tooth-gashed fruit.
Saturday is annual pie day. How many years in a row now have we made pies from this tree? Twenty-six? Lily, as the saying goes, has a bun in the oven. Happy news.
The proof. Or is it proofs, is/are at Jim’s. He’ll check the various arcane codes and then Priority Mail it over.
Disclaimer: I worry a little about the nuns in my sisters’ community reading it. It has passages that one of my sisters called…what was the word, not obscene….crude. Yes crude.
I confess to such. If you’d like me to tell you which chapters, contact me and I will steer you clear. Or toward.
the terror machines pulverizing the silence. Blue Angels. Tell me about it.