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Electric Fence A friend writes in his morning lines, “Light, there is so much of it. Even the wind is full of color this morning.” I read a book on Miles who says, “Prejudice and curiosity are responsible for what I have done in music.” Last night on the golf course before dark: clear, windless. The day’s heat evaporated, leaving read more >>

Treading Water About through a nine-day holiday break. Haven’t shot myself yet. Don’t know how to use guns. Have spent more time with a leaf-blower in my hand than I normally care to. Trying to cut down on drinking is like shouting after a horse galloping past, “Slow down!” Ten days out from oral surgery and my damn molar still read more >>

Crippled “The last time I saw you, you were a cripple.” This from the mouth of an old friend, wife of a writing pal. She was right about not seeing each other for some time—going on four years—but it was the “cripple” part that turned Keith’s head, who looked over from his conversation behind the conference table with trademark raised read more >>

Driving River Road I want Hopper here with me riding shotgun. He’d know, like Walker Evans, to look for the past inside the present: to be keyed into the dilapidation and see it, like I do, as a form of beauty. And I am not talking some knee-jerk nostalgic impulse—though I have enough of those—but truly beautiful by being so read more >>

Wind in the Trees The wind pushes the tree tops around like upside down mops. No crows in sight, for now. As I write this, as if psychic, my puppy brings me her stuffed toy—a crow that, when pressed at its center, emits a realistic Caw, then another Caw, then, a beat later, a sharp Kee-Waak, the crow’s warning call. read more >>