I'm too tired to work on my projects...blah. Get it.
Maybe I should take a seat in the garage, raise the door and sit and just listen, perhaps the owls will sing, one to the other. If I'm lucky there will be a salt marsh breeze off the river with the scent of mud and marsh grass and fiddler crabs. Maybe a stray raccoon will amble inside and keep me company; it happens, they beg for food. There's a chance a possum will join them...I have hand fed a possum. It was little and took the food delicately from my fingertip as if a gift from angels.
Here I sit with the smell of turpentine and distilled alcohol. It's warm out here under the oaks and the stars bright. Spring in Florida. Next weekend I will sit next to a fire truly under the stars and if I'm lucky I will hear the song of whippoorwills and coyotes and watch deer feed by headlight. If God is good He'll provide rain which will dance a magic tune on the old metal roof of our bunkhouse and I'll sleep as if death has taken me. Rainfall on a tin roof should only be experienced by those appreciative of the Lord's wonderful outdoors.
Others will sit about the fire. My friends. Good men. We'll talk well into the night...cigars will glow after a good oak grilled chunk of beef. Steaks fit for men. Coffee, always. Gentle talk, as is fit for the quiet of the woods. I will sit quietly, as is my way, and listen to these men of leather and iron. I'll listen as they clear their throats and sip the coffee and lie about adventures so many years in the past, and true tails of world traveled weary men in service to our country. I'll listen with half an ear but my vision will be captured by that night sky from where I sit in my chair under the pines and oaks, and I may even drift quietly out into the darkness to the waters edge and lose myself and escape this world of blah.
Stephen
