Dark and quiet except for a truck's engine and squealing tires as it downshifts for the railroad tracks, one lone rooster already calling for daylight next door.
Crap sleep. Heartburn (where is THIS coming from?) and dreams that are a fool's meanderings. Brad Pitt was involved but I was in prison. Not a good prison, either. A tropical storm possibly on the way, the husband about to leave to go hunting in Georgia for the weekend.
Well, fuck it.
Those boys will be here soon in the deep darkness, eyes bright and shining, even though.
This is what I want to remember from yesterday:
Elvis approaching Gibson, as he does, for food and when no food appears, wanders off with Gibson in pursuit because Gibson wants to pet that rooster with all of his baby heart. Suddenly, Elvis stands tall and flaps his mighty wings and crows his mighty crow, ear-splitting and he's as tall as Gibson and the poor child dissolves into tears and before I can get to him, his brother races to him and crouches down, enfolds him in his arms. "It okay," he says. "It okay."