A lot has been going on here lately. Had I not been feeling so reticent, I might’ve posted the following updates to Twitter or Facebook.
A dry high: the best weather for brewing.
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The face of an intruder caught in my flashlight’s beam in the tall weeds, pale and out-of-place as a late-season snow.
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The night after the burglary, I sit outside for hours watching fireflies in the moonlight, listening to the deer grazing: slow footfalls, loud chewing.
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A patch of dead grass where the police car had parked with its engine running, leaking coolant in the noonday heat.
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I’ve been actively flirting with disaster. Which is to say, for the first time in years I’ve been driving a car.
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The sky before a violent storm turns green just like the face of someone about to vomit.