He reminds me what time and health are meant for. They all do.
Lawrence delivered the wood today. He threw a two-cord pile out the back of his truck a log at a time with musical clunks that make me think it might be good and dry this year, but I'm often wrong about that. It all sounds musical to me, even wood cut last week and left out in thunder. There's crabgrass everywhere and my emptied garbage can rolls down the street in windstorms, clattering into a ditch by the shore. One ditch or another. All my knives are dull, and I should be writing, and every electrician or painter or plumber looks around curiously but doesn't ask.