The wind blows steady and the red line in my thermometer stays high in its little tube. I'm hoping expert predictions of higher priced natural gas this coming winter are wrong - 30% higher. Does the incessant chirping of these crickets outside my bedroom window mean anything? I remember lots of deep-snow winters, maybe another one is due.
Yesterday I sent draft copies of my book of poems to artists for cover design (that would be my two sons). I'm glad it's reached this state because, in its printed format, I noticed a few glaring problems that need rewrites, maybe even substitution. I have time, though. A phone call yesterday gave me another assignment, anyway, that's going to take up the next month of my time.
The local cancer society started an annual festival, for what reason I'm not sure, but they've been looking for entertainment. Someone gave them my name as being a cowboy poet, so here came the phone call wanting my participation. Rank amateur that I am, I still couldn't say no. So I'll be preparing for that event over the next few weeks. I am going to make it clear, though, that I don't want to be tagged as a "cowboy poet." I think a "country poet" handle fits more comfortably. Two half hour shows need to be prepared for. I pulled out the old six-string guitar last night, and it felt clumsy. I've been playing a little four-string lately, so I will adapt that for my purpose. I'll just tell the audience that I left it out in the rain and it shrunk.
