Samhain Waning Harvest Moon
Talking with the woollies at the Black Forest. Scott, Frank, Warren, Stefan. Eating here at this lasting monument to Gemütlichkeit we lived it. Sharing with each other in our cozy, intimate way, a way borne of decades now together. My claustrophobia, anothers workshop on codependence, Frank’s tooth, Scott’s restructuring of his hours at work, Warren’s cold. All of these and the usual commentary on the upcoming election, the Vikings and the waiver of Randy Moss. Friends eating together, putting another layer of mortar on the linkages among us.
Yet another trip through the night from downtown Minneapolis to the exurbs, from bright lights and people jaywalking, biking, loitering to the dark drive north of Coon Creek Road, past the eutrophying Round Lake and the vast peat bog across the road from it, the basis for Field’s large truck farm.
Now home, letting the dogs out, a note here, then upstairs to read, watch TV, relax.
