2020-09-30 - 9:13 p.m.
First little backyard fire of the season tonight, and a mile away, the motorcycles scream on I-83, headed downtown, to the whatever the night brings. Over here, behind our rowhouse, the night-shifters empty their restaurant trash into the dumpster, the heavy lid banging shut when they're done. Upstairs, period-piece sci-fi shows are getting watched. By the chiminea, I'm thinking about my brothers, about this story about high school love I'm trying to turn from clay into pottery, and you, out there, are breathing, tinkering, napping, eating cookies. It's not all terrible. Life finds a way. And, just now, a train whistle blows. Even the regular can be good, can soothe, can sing.
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