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.
