Telling: Streams & Logs


tuning my station

It is in fact raining, this small opening against the skin, brought to me through my own movement, kiss after kiss. I say my prayers. The old one wrestles with her small dogs who do not wish to toilet on command. She is perhaps surprised by my arrival among the tangle of them, the quiet of my step camouflaged by her insistent cajoling. I stop to allow them room to sort themselves. "Oh god darnit," she growls, "MOVE!" It isn't clear if this is directed at me or the small black pup nosing my toes, or possibly both. I give a small laugh, surprise and forgiveness, both given and begged, I laugh and comply. The hiss of her travels with me. I am carrying her anger now without any sense how to put it down or defuse it. Around the corner and up the block another small dog shoots off his porch at me like a missile fired and though I believe in the rope that limits him I am none-the-less knocked off my stride, lurching streetward a step. The neighbor lady with her dark curls arranged high and saucy, climbing into her big red truck, laughs out deep and full in my direction, for my benefit: "Ain't gonna do nothin!" And I laugh back every bit as deep and grounded and I am so grateful to her for this retuning of my station.