Supplied, stocked and stored for the day when sterility invades the land.

Another sunset.  Another chapter closing.  Another winter migrating its way to the extreme south where warmth ceases and the cold increases.

The dry bones of old industry waiting for their renewal putrefy in the malaise of the Midwest.  The wind carries their dust and penetrates the lungs with every breath.  “We used to be useful,” they woefully mourn, hoping for a day when the jobs come back and grey skies float away.

Fitting image for a refrain in a bluesy tune I wrote years ago:

“Come on down and sing the devil’s blues/Well your friends are there and we’ll be there.”

Spring is on the rise.  It left its home in a timely manner.  Fifteen minutes to spare to account for the unaccountable.  Traffic and road construction were not an issue on its journey.  Needless to say, it arrived a little early.

Drilling, screwing, stripping.  Dirty minds and the double entendres of my tool (there’s another one) bench.

Pray for the departed souls of our wars and heroes unsung.

The old Quonset hut across from the only bar our town had ever known changed our lives that winter.  We could never pin-point exactly what it was, but only knew we’d never be the same.  Some folks say it was God’s way of getting back at the town for allowing the heathen and their godless ways to take foothold.  Some say it was just plain ole fate for letting a mass infestation of rats and other vermin laden with all kinds of disease to go about their business right where we lived and where our children played.   What ever it was, and for whatever reason, the resulting plague swept across the nation like a summer thunderstorm on the great plains.

Sitting.  Watching.  Waiting.  Wondering what the future has in store(age).

Directing and redirecting the light according to its whim.