It's misting down like the edge of Niagara Falls (a place I know) and I've just come in. My head is newly shaven and wet.
I can feel, now that I'm in out of it and rubbing my soggy head, the scar where poor skinny Debbie hit me with a big rock (she liked me) in the sixth grade. She took it much worse than I did, though I played it up for the girls a bit when they came around to coddle me.
There's the scar on my lip where a German shepherd bit me during a game of crazy tackle in seventh or eighth grade. I stayed home by myself for a week and got Kraft Dinner orange on my bandage.
And now that I'm tallying, there's the tooth I chipped running away to skulk after I purposely (but not very hard, damn it!) hit my little brother with the tire of my bike. He screamed like a weasel whose dinner (chiefly small rodents, I read) has been snatched.
Lady was retired to an easy job guarding a construction site, where biting is recommended. My brother could do the tooth-chipping himself now if even I tried anything like that, so I suppose I won't. And Debbie, I'm told, is a tall, lovely blonde who could throw even bigger rocks if she wanted to, and men would line up for it.
And here I am (or here I was, until a few seconds ago) just lying here (there) thinking about these things, wishing peace on everyone and everything, when a black kitten flies out of the dark and lands on my face with claws like needles, only sharper.
But, Christ, three beautiful white swans flew out of the white fog just now, right past my window as I was writing to someone on the other side of the world.