Two swans

This morning at the bridge, we were whipped by wind and rain and we made our usual pledge to not look back. But then I heard my name and turned around and he was on the bridge pointing into the water. There, on top of the dirty silver churning of waves, were two white swans.

Then we were on our way again; two points moving not-quite parallel on opposite paths, getting smaller, and the wind picked up and propelled hard rain and wet leaves into my face and hair. Walking along the Thames in an early morning rain storm with a banjo strapped to your back is an awesome experience.

We always seem to have a funny moment at the door as we’re leaving for somewhere else. Like ha-ha funny, not like the funny that makes your stomach twirl and your head storm around for a good way to backtrack. We are doorstep comedians, at our most vulnerable maybe, on the precipice of our public faces.

I could tell you about what I think of (remember) whenever it seems I’m trapped in the eternal work dimension but I feel stingy about these things today. I can’t even allow myself to take conscious ownership of certain memories when I’m here and surrounded by the most unsexy objects and people and landscapes imaginable. You have to sink through the weeds to reach the murky floor of buried treasure and hope that fingers don’t catch in the shredded flag of hair succeeding you.

An early fall pelts summer with rain, causing it to retreat and I don’t even mind. I think of warm baths, covers, roasted candied nuts steaming on the wind and all those pigeons huddled together beneath a blanket of mist.