It's so very quiet out right now--and cool, too. It must have rained, though I don't believe I saw a drop of it. The great trees from my backyard are all crackling with lightning bugs, as if God had strung them up for Christmas. Twinkle twinkle. Why haven't I ever noticed this before?

Lightning flashes occasionally, but truly I believe there is no sign of rain. The thunder and black clouds are just a tease. I'm glad for the cool air. I'm glad for this brief silence. All the world must be elsewhere. Good luck for me. Tonight I am content with my own company.

Ah, the neighbor has just turned out her lights. It feels like a Tom Waits song--an old one and therefore sad. Closing Time. Hang on, must go put that on.

Yes. Tommy is just right.

Three writers I decided I don't understand:
1. Louise Gluck
2. Sharon Olds (I'm over my earlier rapture)
3. Adrienne Rich

Bathsheba came over earlier with unbelievable amounts of new treasures. In particular I covet the Lorca for dummies book with pictures and the Townes Van Zandt tribute cd. And the book on duende.

Ok. Time to retire somewhere dimly lit, with my beer, my smokes, my journal, my books and my pup. And Tom Waits singing his old drunk songs about love and sadness. Bless us all, every one.