Land spreadin' out so far and wide.

In the city, there are movies. Lots of movies. Harry Potter, for instance. There are grocery stores with a lot of produce. In the city, there is a farmer's market, and there are peaches. In the city, I could be having lunch with my friends, and petting my dog, and wearing different clothes than the ones I've been wearing. I could wear blue shoes instead of red ones. Or yellow shoes. There are free concerts downtown.

In the city, I have a garden and flowers. A combination of sprinklers and twenty-year-olds are watering them. People are having parties and I am not in attendance. There are outdoor chairs I could sit in after having taken Bruiser for a walk whilst sipping iced tea.

In the city, there are grandchildren I haven't seen for two weeks. Swimming pools. Target. A printer.

In the city there are no bats under the eaves.

In the city there is a library where I could return the novels I have already read and in turn, check out new ones.

HOWEVER: in the city, I almost certainly would not have done the work I've done here, to wit: revising sixteen poems and counting, renaming the manuscript, and getting a grip (yet again) on what it's all about. I would not have read so many books and I would not have spent as many peaceful, restorative hours in a place I love, with the historian whom I love. I would not have seen so many birds or coyotes (or bats), nor would I have logged as much river-time.

City: when I come back I will have a big howdy for you. But till then, I'll be living off the land and whupping my manuscript into shape. I trust there'll still a little bit of city-style summer fun left when I see you again.

Under the eaves.

The people, there are bats that live under the eaves of this dwelling.

This we have known for a long time. But sometimes we forget about it and then we are reminded.

Let us pause to consider the beneficial qualities of bats: they eat a hella lotta insects. That's good. [The historian notes: "I don't know that people understand the value of bats. That is, they eat their body weight in insects every day. Like spiders. They are our friends."] Also, they are nocturnal, so we don't have to contemplate their preternatural weirditude in the daylight. Thank you, bats!

Today, however, just as I had thrown up my hands at the last two incorrigible poems I was going to work on today, and had therefore turned my therapeutic attention to the second half of Road Dogs, by Elmore Leonard (quite good, thanks for asking!), I heard something slightly meow-ish or groan-y or what? it was the middle of the afternoon and it was an eerie animal sound. A tad bit eerie. And then, there was a certain scrabbling. Like little bat feet? somewhere in the vicinity of the eaves.

Me: There are bats. That live in the eaves.

Historian: I'll go fetch a ladder. And a flashlight.

Okay, that probably wasn't the conversation, but it was the result:

Historian: Yep, there are bats. Do you want to see them?

Me: (faints)

Okay, I didn't faint, but I did NOT want to see them. Even though in years past I have seen them taking flight at dusk (I believe I used that very poetic phrase in a poem many many years ago--"taking flight at dusk"), I did not want to climb the ladder in the middle of the hot afternoon and see the bats hanging out in the eave-ish region. No. I did not want to.

But I will say this: I found the sound just distracting and creepy enough that we decided we would go out to dinner:

Me: Is it cheating if we go out [note: by "go out," I meant "flee the scene of the scrabbling bat sounds"] and find someplace to get dinner?

Historian: No, it is not cheating.

So we went out and found a place to get dinner, and that's why I love the historian. The end.

P.S. we--and by "we," I mean "the historian"--saw the bats taking flight at dusk. Yes: "taking flight at dusk." The poesy of it all, ugh.