4433. MORNING IN ALASKA

MORNING IN ALASKA

It's already late May  -  which is now like

late Summer as all things are accelerated

and condensed. I haven't much time. The

waning skyward moon is high this dawn,

reminding me of something. I must move

fast, this furious month runs away already,

and I have lost two runaway cows to those

damned black bears at Head of the Bay, where

they roam. Eating the grass now carries so

much peril; like never before  - those poor

cows.  But I will not double-back.

-

Everywhere, the dogs are barking, and the

sky is different too  -  a seasonal alteration,

in ways I'll not describe. When I drive out

for supplies, the whole town seems different:

no more damned New York coeds a'walk

on the streets  -  no down jackets and crumpled

coats. A better pair of old jeans instead,

and I make do with asses.

-

I alone, here to tell you, usually take satisfaction

from more murderous stuff in my study : all that

free Winter time on my hands. Remember, perhaps,

Lothario de Signei, in 1190, who later became

Pope Innocent III, how he wrote in that wonderful

book 'On the Contempt of the World'  -  'Man is

filth, has been conceived in the desire of the flesh  -

vile, filthy sperm.' Yes, well, let's leave well enough

alone. Enough of all that. Up here, like a very good

monk, I need only myself; and while I may guess

that someone has it in for me  -  this fearsome human

mess  -  I still must think, 'My God, Lothario, my God!'