An old glass fly rod, fitted with a Shakespeare automatic reel, stands alone in the corner, awaiting dawn and the traditional birthday trip to the lake. The rain drums steadily on the motel roof.
Thin walls vibrate to each passing truck, boring east through the darkness to meet the dawn.
Three a.m., birthday, number 87, today. Forty years later, a mere blink of God's eye, I watch words and ideas go into the blackness, tumble and spin and be lost. Only disjointed flotsam returns. Then, the blankness, the darkness, the gentle escape, only to return to confusion. You watch the rabbit ravish the neighbors garden and your feet move.