PIE

I just had a happy thought: Pie! Pumpkin and pecan, rummy whipped cream, in glittering foil south of the milk jug.

We carried home this treasure from our Thanksgiving home up on a ridge. This friendly fellow, J, roasted a turkey covered in fat-back. Oh, my. Can the spits of heaven hold anything more succulent?

I just chatted with my brother-in-law and their turkey, when they cut into it, spurted blood and was still partially frozen. Though I missed family this holiday, I am rumly satisfied to think that I ate the far superior bird. (Thank you, J, T, and kids, for a lovely feast!)

Martin and I have spent this guest-less holiday writing in the evenings. "An hour and a half!" he said tonight, and we sat down with our laptops and fell to. I feel as though I should be working on another short story or my article for the paper, but I've been swimming through the warm waters of poetry instead. Perhaps it's the changing weather--instead of knitting I'm turning to the tight link of words, though they haven't been particularly warm nor cuddly--mostly just strange.

But there's nothing strange about pie and I'm just waiting for Martin to give up so we can shake off the silence and eat.