Yesterday my older son went into the woods, sawed down a Christmas tree, dragged it back to the house, and announced that he was now ready to decorate. This is an exciting new development in child-rearing: kids who are old enough to run Christmas. I can't wait to abdicate.

I am in a mixed-up kind of half-lonely mood--a hard day to get words down, a hard day to read. Perhaps it's good that I have to go play the violin at the firehouse tonight. Maybe a dose of Christmas carols and Chex party mix among the fire engines will straighten me out.

Here's a little poem. I wrote it a while ago and just discovered that I still like it. Of course it's not as good as Alice Munro's "Turkey Season," which is the best slaughterhouse story I know. But to be fair to myself, I didn't even know that story existed till after I wrote the poem.

Don't be afraid to

lug a fat kid into rain, laugh when his mouth

flaps open like a chick's, stumble south

through weary dumps and truck-torn

roads, past autumn gnats who mourn

at Greaney's turkey farm, where redcoats

sling up roosters heel by heel, slit throats,

drain hearts, while maples twist an eye-

blue sky, a rush of wild geese wings by:

good enough day to kill or die,

perch shivering on a tailgate, fly.