The Dog Stars

Never liked whiskey, he told me. But I drink it because it has a storied history.

The night is without weight: the dark weightless now in its immanent passing like a deer about to bolt. The morning light a thought that is just occurring. Still and quiet, high stars, no wind.

We’ll keep track of this little rill. Of tying on fresh tippet and the tufty fly, and we’ll blow on it for luck. Of this cast and the next and if we ourselves are lucky it will add up to nightfall.

He kind of hunched over himself maybe remembering. Suddenly remote like his spirit retreated to a safer distance. To watch.

Waiting for your real life to begin. Maybe the most real thing the end. To realize that when it’s too late.

underneath the big stillness like a score is the roaring of the cataract of everything being and being torn away.

The sun overwhelming eyelids, pouring down like heavy water. If there is nothing else there is this: to be inundated, consumed.

We listen to wind high, water low.

Not sure if I’ll ever get to the four or five really beautifully built mini-mansions the ones with exotic hardwoods, if I do by then they will hold no cachet probably. Probably just look to me like some refreshingly different scents in the burning.