Bach blew me apart in my truck this morning



I could have written more this morning.

The house was empty. The one good radio station

was playing Tom Petty's "Even The Losers...Get Lucky Sometimes."

I stood over my coffee musing over the verb "to rock."

I could have written more. The dog was making his investigations,

policing the kitchen, the front room, searching for cats.

Then he ate a little. The two bay windows were open. The wind puffed

at the screens. Somewhere there's a hurricane but here only dark

cool wind. I wanted to write it. I took out my new

machine, plugged it in and typed on the soft, silent keyboard.

I read what I had written two days ago and it was not bad

but I knew it could be a lot better with more brought to bear,

if only I could. I wrote some, but I could have done more.



At 6:08 I leashed the dog and we stepped outside.

The air was colored like ashes and I could smell rain.

The air was cool on my wrists and face. We headed

up the road, the leather leash loose, the black German Shepherd

glancing over his shoulder and up with his foxlike brown eyes,

his gait an easy trot. The light increased in such a way to be felt

as much as seen. The sky appeared lavender. I thought of "Lavender Mist"

but not so much of Pollock. I felt a terrible yearning I could barely

name. I looked at the sky framing the trunks of big pine trees

at some short distance, say three stone throws away.

I was without human company. Of this I was glad. Still I felt

broken open. I thought if only I could write it. I could have this morning.



We made our way down to the field and the fence beyond,

the light

still increasing.