French roast coffee in a French press coffeepot, sunshine already and thick humid air and really loud birds, humming refrigerator, car swishing past on the road, dark kitchen, three bunches of lily-of-the-valley in tiny glass medicine bottles on my kitchen table, lilac blooms fading on the bushes, iris in bud, hummingbird fights at the feeder, grumpy goat complaining in the barn, three ripe bananas and an avocado sitting on the counter, deerflies, blackflies, mosquitoes, bats upside down and asleep in their secret hiding places, state track meet later this morning along with hot sun, crowds of school buses, milling screeching excited nervous laughing nonchalant sweaty teenagers, the smell of sunscreen, straw hat and sandals and a summer dress, the Milk Carton Kids song that's been stuck in my head for three days, thinking about poems thinking about pie thinking about the excellent rhubarb-cranberry-orange-liqueur combination I made yesterday that boiled over into the unreachable bowels of the oven, trying to think about poems without conflating them with stupid stuff like burnt pie filling, but to no avail because everything airy and transported in my writing life always seems to be lassoed to something bumpy and solid and scratched up and probably bald and certainly it needs a shave and it's about ten pounds overweight and it goes fishing in the rain but never catches anything and snores all night and is not affected by the cuteness of kittens though it does have a weakness for barbecue potato chips, diet Pepsi mixed with cheap Canadian whiskey, and sweet four-part harmony.