The saw blades wound down for the night, and I emerged from the dusty shop, the clear air refreshing.
The stars sparkled down in the cold, and I looked up. Orion got a belt loop hooked on the pecan branches. His dog jumped up from behind the mountain, ready to hunt on a frosty night. I peered through the trees, into the southern reaches of the Milky Way and the infinity that everyone hurries by because it’s too cold outside.
This…this is what I need to distil, with clumsy hands, as best as I can.
Writing of the stars is as Pine Sol is to cool boughs on a dewy morning, but you gotta try.
You know who did a good job of it?
Beethoven. It’s his 253rd birthday today.
Aren’t we lucky to be on the same planet that Ludwig graced with his symphonies and sonatas, and where the stars glitter down through pecan branches–eternally cold, like the hard rails that head west out of town, forever?
I’m back out to the shop to mutter and squint and cut twice and measure once.
What fun!
You know I’ll be cranking this.
-Josh