Sunday, January 29, 2006

Concentrate Without Trying

My parents have gone to bed.

I slipped out the sliding glass door on the side deck to have a cigarette. My first of the day. Since I've been at the computer for a few hours now, I was wearing my glasses.

Outside on the driveway, something made me look up, and I realized for the first time how beautiful stars can look. Somehow, I've never before worn my glasses and looked up at the stars on a night without a moon or a cloud or a streetlight to obstruct the view.

I hate my glasses. That's probably why.

As I smoked my cigarette, I stared upwards and appreciated, literally for the first time in my life, this multitude of tiny, perfect points of light. There was nothing else to see. Standing there like a turkey in the rain, I had only the stars, set to the inobtrusive music of a cow lowing, a dog bark echoing in the valley, a cat crying — no doubt from being locked out of a house on the next hill over — and my own dog, scuttling across the pavement and setting his tags to a familiar, rhythmic tinkling.

It's too cold for the crickets to be out.

I came back inside and couldn't remember what I was working on.

One of my dog's tags is shaped like a little bone.

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