Blinking awake, I couldn’t immediately place
The sound.
But at three a.m.
Any sound that’s not the buzzing of cicadas
Or tree frogs,
Begs attention
A clatter? A clicking bump?
There had been serious rain.
Was the river on the rise
Banging the boats together?
Might have to go down and lengthen the lines.
Grabbed the flashlight and stepped out into the damp chill
Where the halfmoon light glowed
Weakly through the fog.
Hadn’t taken the time to
Pull on my wet sneakers
-an ordeal in itself-
So buckled immediately when an acorn cap
Bit into my bare foot.
Then again, on the next step when it stuck there.
I had to lean against the cabin’s slippery wall to lift my foot;
In my dotage I need either two feet on the ground
Or a hand assist.
I envied the horses on this, lift one leg still three down.
The river was in good shape if a little murky
from the storm but the boats were riding fine.
Cans were scattered around the patio
Probably a coon-long gone now.
A skunk would have left his aromatic calling card and coyotes would have announced
Their presence.
I hadn’t carried the .22 out with me
Because shooting guns in the middle of the night
Just out of a dead sleep is
The most appalling kind of folly.
Then, from somewhere on the mountain
Came the mournful call of a Great Horned Owl
Too faint to have heard from inside.
I tried to answer but sounded ridiculous.
Embarrassed for the owl, I shut up.
He moved and called again.
Then again from the triple sycamore just downstream.
I’d clean up the mess in the morning. Appreciative.
The owl was worth getting up for.
Hot Bottoms 