And June's blogger extraordinaire is Erin Malone. Check it all out here: Beloit Poetry Journal Blog.
Okay, back to me . . .
Why is it called the crack of dawn? What's cracking? If you've got a hangover, I reckon it's your skull--or at least it feels that way.
This morning I woke, well, at the crack of dawn: 5:18 or so. I couldn't stay in bed because the robins and Bewick's wrens were singing their asses off. I considered letting myself fall back asleep, then decided--no way, it's time to be out among all the hoopla. And when I got there, up to a place where I could actually see the sky, the light was pouring out of a crack between the clouds. I mean, I actually saw the crack of dawn! It was pretty special, a reward for being out at such a ridiculously early time of day.
It made me think of John Ciardi, a poet who lived on my block where I grew up in NJ. He has an essay about doing all his writing before sunrise, how the day is basically over once the crack appears. Thinking of that great mind at work just a few houses down . . . it always floors me.
Another reward for heeding to the crack: I saw hundreds of little fish jumping out of Lake Washington--yes, hundreds. Completely out of the water, then sorta belly-flopping back in. Any ideas what the heck was going on?
I kinda get Ciardi's drift--here it is 9:20 am, and the day feels kinda done. I never was an afternoon person. It's all about the crepuscular.
Question: if no one comments on your blog, does your blog exist? Does the blogger? Does the tree fall, or what?
Fat City, Part 1
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