Big Moon

Big belly moon tonight, waddling through the night like a washed up tenor. And there are bear tracks on the driveway, rustling in the bushes: still, no signs of the red-naped sapsucker. Patience, I tell myself: is it not pleasure enough that he is reputed to exist?

Benzoogle is learning to scream, shattered crystal followed by high, hysterical glass giggles that tinkle lightly on the soul. Wily, wily and fast, that boy: get him naked and he'll wiggle-step right past you before you can say Sneako McFleako.

To bed, to bed: red-eye tomorrow.