It's 10 p.m. and I'm on the deck sipping a glass of Shiraz and feeling the breeze on my neck. A squirt gun rests on the table next to the wine. It's for the black cat next door. He likes to crap in my yard. A quick squirt of H2O and he clears the fence back to his own litterbox. My cat is poised in the lawn staring at who knows what. A moth? A spider? She'll pounce in a minute and puke it up later. After she goes inside.
Thoughts about nothing and everything. Fueled by cynicism and, most likely, wine.