I’m prowling the streets of Cully under the early-summer maples looking for a cut-through to Killingsworth that’s not an unimproved road which means gravel and giant flooded potholes because my feet hurt, I haven’t worn the barefoot shoes in a long time and I put Band-Aids over my Achilles tendons so no blisters at least but I’m tired and I want to catch the #72 on Killingsworth and ride it home, at least close to home, before the clouds massing up in the southwest turn from smoky blue to gray to black and open up and drench me, although at least that would cool me down and help me forget that half of western Canada is on fire and Lady Liberty is drowning in smoke and I’m out here walking a half dozen miles from home because doomscrolling the pictures on the news gives me flashbacks to the fall of 2020 when all that fire came pouring over the Cascades and down through the canyons—people in Indonesia emailed to ask if we were okay and we said no, no-one in the world is okay right now.
Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
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