Do you want me to tell you that today I turned thirty years old. Or something like this, something that feels an awful lot like this. That the day shaped up to be any other day. Much anticipated rain came, after a morning of fishing with no results. Or it was sleet and then large pillowy flakes on Afton mountain. As a present, my wife had given me thirty dollars earmarked bookbuying money. So, in the afternoon, after returning a book that had been recalled to the library, I purchased Anselm Hollo’s Guests of Space and a collection of poems written by Li Po that had been translated into English. Then I ate lunch at a small French restaurant. I had a glass of white wine and an avocado sandwich. The wine made me think of the Riesling that I received in the mail last week which made me think of the mallard on one leg, obviously cold, that I had seen while fishing, which made me think of art exhibits, which made me think of regeneration, which made me think of tragedies, which made me think of everything that I have yet to finish.

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