I came back to D.C. for a week, while waiting on the cabin delivery. That cat and I drove through three hours of what I can only describe as monsoon-like rains, a well-timed departure from a storm I expect wiped out my camp and would have confined us to the van for days.
Timing is everything.
I sat on the back porch of a friend's apartment, working and drinking wine, and listened. People say sirens are the background noise in cities, but really it's more similar to the woods than that. It's air conditioners, at least in the summer. They hum, they never stop, like a mechanized version of the wind that roars through the all the birch trees.
Strange to be here. A Tuesday that feels like a Saturday. Cheap red wine and a wicked long chef's knife, lazily working on a story while reading postcards from the 1920s.
