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Day 43 —

Plums.

I am eating plums
with beer.
Tonight, no stars just
a void that resembles
a freshly erased chalkboard
Darker, quieter than most.

There’s a puzzle scattered
on the kitchen table. It’s image
is cookies and yesterday
I spilled sugar on it.

Sometimes there are spiders
on my head, sometimes
down my shirt. It’s forever
a surprise.

I rate the bugs:
Spiders — 8, useful and skilled
Moths — 7, harmless
House flies — 2, useless, constant annoyance
Horse flies — 1, useless, annoying, painful
Mosquitos — 0, the worst of all
Ants — 4, not too bad
Beetles — 5, stick to themselves, usually discrete
Ticks — 0, up to no good

It’s hummingbird season.
The stars came.

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Day 40 —

Late August. The moon is
the shape of a finger nail
over the lake beyond the lake.
The dog flies into the brush
for a show. She bounds
in fields of hay as
the sky’s stroke grounds us.
My skin is the color
of terra cotta, baked.
The air is warm,
grassy and alive.
And the big dipper hangs
like a pitcher, pouring
the stars
onto my head.

These are good days,
these are good days,
these are the good days.