Morgan Horse Show

The Morgan horse show just started at the fairgrounds across from my apartment. It goes all week. Lots of trailers and canopies lined up along the fence, and crackly loudspeaker announcements aurally flavoring my days.

Last night, the sky was flashing white with heat lightning before the rain, and I stood for a minute on the little landing of my stairs, watching a big open flame that people had lit next to their trailer in the corner of the fence blow sideways in the wind. I could see the dark outline of a guy standing right there, but the wildness of the flame still made me nervous. It was beautiful, too, in the humid, windy heat and dark, and I was counting on rain, soon. It's always a little strange to watch people who pick this corner of the fairgrounds to camp. I think that they might feel like they are getting a sort of private spot far from the center of the world they've made together in their horse show at the fairgrounds, but, of course, it brings them almost onto our street.

The smells from the stables make me think of Texas.

Downpour

I was just working on a chapter in the library, and it was thorny and pleasurable in the strange way that this revision has become. Then, I wanted to go swimming, but just as I left, a few raindrops were hitting the pavement outside the library, so I put all my notes and manuscripts (handwritten, a lot of it, in old fashioned brown accordion files: bad news if wet) into a white trash bag, draped my swim towel over it (they won't let you in the pool for a half hour if it's thundered), and headed home on my trike in a downpour that left me absolutely soaked to the skin, shivering and barely able to see. My shoes were squishing on the pedals. Wet, wet, wet. I'm home, still wet, warm and drying, work dry, too, about to eat some pesto from basil my love brought me yesterday. It's getting very humid hot in here again, and I'm exhilarated from the writing and the ride.

It feels so lucky, and so good.