The Local Scene

A while ago at the back door, there was fog, filled with the smell of rosemary and creosote, and the other garden herbs in my neighborhood. Now the rain patters and drips, and a train just sounded, but softened rounding the corner and headed out. My darling cat insists on sleeping on my texting hand, and we are snug. I am safe from everything but time, and cholesterol, and my unwillingness to statin up. Yeah I'm not gonna do it. This rain has such a pleasant, organic staccato, spattering on the window unit, and then an old swamper, long defunct.