What's that have to do with Jack Kerouac, you ask? Nothing much, except I was in the mood to write (writers write, right?) and this is what occurred when I started tapping the keyboard. Plus it's October (still) - Jack's favorite month and one he mentions frequently in his novels and poems. Four more days until November, and voting (thank heavens this election cycle will be over), and Crystal's birthday (last one of a kind), and Thanksgiving, and snow (probably), and the smell of woodsmoke daily, and the entry into a pulled-in kind of living where being inside is punctuated with mandatory forays into the bleak whiteness to clear the driveway and make pathways to various points - fuel oil filler tube, propane tank, woodshed, outbuildings, deck, sump pump hose - oh, and especially to the bird feeder because so many little creatures depend on me for daily sustenance (damn squirrels but as Dad would say, "They have to eat, too.").
I don't know about you, but things could be lot worse and it's good to remember that on a Saturday morning in a warm room with a view of the water and no pressing matters beyond what costume to wear for Halloweening in Hallowell tonight.