I have some old journals, which I’ve been keeping not too religiously since 1992, as far as I can tell. Now and then, I get one out and type into the computer. Makes it easier to save and search. So if someone asks, When did we get Happy? or When was it we went to Mt. Lassen and played in the snow? I can look it up. Anyway, among the stuff in my journals are snippets of writing that didn’t live long enough to become poetry. There are good reasons for that, but here’s such a thing.

January 8, 1995

I hear you, ticking kitchen clock; and you, humming refrigerator and descant buzz of light bulbs. Not the friends I would have chosen for tonight, but I am not lonely. The honey colored dog is by the sofa, watching me. Keeping watch. Her instinct to protect the flock. And loudest of all tonight’s companions, the washer is draining the soap from my best white shirt.

The rain has stopped for now, and tomorrow is over Europe, coming soon enough.