I've been here a week already. A week??!!
I'm writing from the computer in the loft of the barn. My clothes are in the dryer downstairs.
So far I've read two novels, one short story collection, and about ten books of poems.
It might rain soon. The wind is tossing leaves against the windows. It's been muggy all day.
Mary Oliver would love it up here. She would write her fingers off.
I tried to email Cornshake about her beautiful new baby but my AOL mail is acting up. It just wouldn't send emails.
I hope you're writing me postcards. John, I got yours. Thanks.
Today a title of a new poem came to me. And the last two lines came right after the title.
My floorboards are so creaky! At first I thought they creaked alot because I'm a big boy. But I often hear the floorboards creak in the bedroom next to mine. And the poet in that bedroom is a skinny woman.
I just went downstairs. My clothes are still wet.
In the morning I stood near the edge of the pond. I spotted a frog half-submerged in the water. I tore some leaves off a plant, and I tossed them at the frog. I wanted to make it leap out of the water. The frog just ignored the leaves. I tossed some pebbles at the frog and nothing. Damn! It was on! I wasn't going to let a frog make a punk out of me! I bent down and found a stick. I approached the frog. Its throat bubbled. I poked it with the stick, and it leaped! Very high. It leaped into deeper water, and swam away.