It's so clear and so beautiful and the air is like gin, like water which is clear as gin, like the water in the springs before the white man arrived and there was only panther poop in it, maybe a little gator poop.
Think of how much a mastodon must have pooped! Oh my god. Still, it would take a lot of mastodons to poop up a spring and do as much damage as the effluence from all of the preternaturally green lawns and sewers and paper factories that poop them up now.
I doubt there were ever THAT many mastodons.
What in hell am I talking about? I don't know. I just woke up, later than I thought to wake up because the boys are coming back and I slept so hard. I finally got a good night's sleep and in case you missed it in the first paragraph, tripping over the piles of mastodon poop as it were, it is a beautiful day. I can't remember any dreams I had which might have pooped up my sleep the way they will sometimes. You'll be sleeping along like Sleeping Beauty and then suddenly, a dream that screams CRAZY and wakes you up and you're lying there thinking, what in god's name did THAT mean? and the sleep stream is all messed up, impossible to relax back into it for fear you'll run right back into the dream or another one as crazy as that one and you're done for it as far as that night goes and probably the next day too.
Poop. Yes, the boys are coming and poop is definitely part of the day when they're around but poop is just poop and Gibson will tell me when he poops and wants to be changed and he holds my hand while we walk to the bathroom to get a warm washcloth and then back to the diaper-changing bed and he is a good little fellow and lets me change him easily, mostly, although sometimes it seems to take about an eon, a mastodon poop of time to get the snaps done up on whatever he is wearing. He is such a sweetling. As is his brother and I left up all of the decorations, the BEST DECORATIONS IN THE UNIVERSE! and we'll see how this day goes. They go, they go, the days go by so quickly, even if you sit in the porch swing and do the Eensy Weensy Spider over and over again. The Huge Mama Spider who lives right above the porch swing has laid her eggs and one of these days she'll be gone, the way spiders go, and I feel like this one has become such a part of our days we should have a burial for her, a kitchen-sized match box lined with purple silk as a casket, a regular sized match box would not be big enough.
Oh, this is life and moods come and go and we go on and I tried to look at the moon last night but it was cloudy and the moon was only a faint smear of silver behind a scrim. Maybe tonight I'll see it, full-bellied and asking me if I have harvested everything yet that needs to be harvested and I'll say, "I hope not. Not yet."
Good morning from Lloyd. The air is as clear as water which is as clear as gin and I will be fully awake soon.