The Sense Always That One Is Being Followed

The trout was gone, fetched from the reedy bank by . . . my guess is a bear, though I am somewhat crazed in my desire to encounter them.  Maybe a raccoon.  Whatever it was, the dogs went into a tizzy at the smell, first nearly burying themselves in the mud, then running in tight circles up and down the trail, following the creature’s scent.  One – Song, the younger – found some scat and had a delicious roll, successfully ruining any possibility of identification.  The sense always that one is being followed, and not necessarily in a bad way.

The mournful Irish whistle (low D maybe?) piped over a mist-swept farm yesterday afternoon.  I tried to focus on the interview, on my notes, but kept going back to 1989, the shores of Bantry, where I lived a few precious weeks.  Smoking cigarettes and gulping hot tea at dawn surrounded by curious sheep, staring at the bay and the rocky cliffs beyond.  It was harder to breathe in those days, running as hard as I did.

Falling asleep last night Jeremiah mumbled, We cannot make our hopes come true.  And when I asked him to explain he replied, We cannot make it rain or not rain.  And when I asked him who can make it rain or not rain he said, irritated now, It would take me an hour to explain it.  So we drifted off, lovely slippage into lost dreams.

And:  tomatoes with feta, steamed kale, raw garlic sliced with apples . . . And coffee of course.  The first cup of the day is always the best.

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