A Short Stir
‘Tis a lone road to travel, this dirt path that meanders about God’s green Earth. Yet there is the call of crows nearby, or the repetitious cry of a mourning dove, coming from some hidden spot among the wood, or up ahead, a place where the whippoorwill sings. The fearsome swamp-wampus is held at bay with a few stones secreted away in one pocket, while in the other is kept a small knife for sharpening sticks, in case two show up. But without the trees and the birds and the beasts, this trail would be abandoned in favor of another, for I desire to wander.
I am fond of that wistful paragraph. So fond, that at one point way back when, I thought to include the descriptive piece in my header permanently. I tried to do so several times, but forces far beyond my meager understanding of computer-minded directions denied it staying put.
I moved on, but last night I remembered it again, and I wailed. The poor child I created with such love cannot be paraded out for the world to constantly see and admire, so I let sleep come in fitfull waves.
"Give it up," I told tortured self.
"Shut up and leave me to my damned grief," I responded. We knew it would be a long night, and it was. I awoke with nothing. No answer, no solution, no way to address this bothersome dilemma greeted our dawn. That's typical here in the cave, so coffee seemed the only reasonable solution left, and true to form, a fresh pot waited the muses and me.
There is nothing like coffee to take us away.
Now, to write.