Tuesday, October 13, 2009


It's rainy and raw. The yews drip. The sparrows at the feeder are drenched and sodden. Everything is a yellowed-over gray. I need a walk so I will walk in the house. I light a candle and put on my striped paw-gloves, which I found in the pocket of my winter coat. I must have washed them last spring: they smell fresh. Gloves on, red scarf wrapped twice around my neck, insulated in sweaters, fleece pants and long underwear, I should warm up.

I'm lucky to have rooms to move in. Even if I were back in one of the dismal, small, cold furnished rooms I once lived in, I'd find a way to move. I fall into a fast rhythm: kitchen, through the dining room, down the hall, into the living room, and back again, and again. The "Jazz Spectrum" is on the radio and I hear what sounds like a mellow throaty voice. I put my head close to the radio. A bass or a guitar? I'm not sure. When I call the station, I learn it's Steve Gilmore playing bass. His bass is a mouth, a throat, lungs, breath.

I've warmed up and can stretch--hamstrings, quads, arms, back. Hamstrings are the tightest but they let go.

Now I've got a pot of rice cooking on the stove. Rice and beans for lunch and then time to write while the last of the storm knocks down leaves. They're on the grass: copper, yellow, red.


  1. Oh look at those gloves! Fabulous. Pity the zebra who gave his life for them.


  2. I heartily agree with Radish King...what lovely gloves...
    what a good walker you are. You need a sign to wear ... I walk well or I am a good walker or I walk with earnestness and grace or I walk everyday or walking is a serious occupation or walk with me or something like that.

    and I suppose you have already made up your face to walk indoors? too wonderful. You are an inspiration.

  3. The gloves are made of synthetic fiber. No animal skin gloves for me.
    to both of you dears!