It is a blustery day, which may be as close to winter as we will get this year. It's windy, with partial sun, so we will have pot roast, as I pretend it's colder than it is! We have potatoes, carrots, and onions already, so it seemed like a good dish for dinner. I love having something stewing in the oven for hours.
Something in the house is beeping every 12-18 hours: 3 short beeps. Nothing too shrill or alarming, but unusual. The one smoke alarm that we have is hard wired, so it's not a smoke alarm battery. It's not the cell phone, since my spouse has heard the beeps when the cell phone has been in the car with me. I've checked the fridge and the wine chiller, thinking that maybe one of them beeps if the door is ajar--that doesn't seem to be the case. Hmm.
If I have to hear mysterious sounds in the house, an electronic beeping at random hours is not the worst sound to endure. I'm remembering a year ago when we had creatures scurrying in the attic. And with these blustery winds, on the breeze I hear the creak of palm trees and the crying of cats.
I feel a poem percolating below the surface, about what we hear and what we think we hear and what we cannot hear. I also have a number of short stories percolating--I'm hoping this will be the week when I start on the story about the woman going to the woman's march on Washington.
While I haven't gotten much new writing done this week, I've done some revision, which makes me happy.
And now it's time to work on pot roast! We make it in the magnalite roasting pan that used to be my grandmother's--if I wrote a poem about my version of ancestor worship/communication, that would be a stanza.
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