Eight a.m. I am in the living room of the Johnny Gunter house. A beautiful full-moon night, clear as spring water and pebbled with stars, has passed into another day. In its wake lies the first killing frost of the fall. I’m alone with the murmur of a new green enamel woodstove sucking in oxygen in the way of all living beings. Here there is space for slipping quietly between the opposing forces of frost-riven grass and a hot stove, aided and abetted by a cup of strong but very mediocre coffee.
Thank you for your meditation-- you are becoming a good ancestor, your writing itself a place of grounding, holding the past, present, and future.
Always a pleasure to read these historic ramblings of the heart, Tom.