In the cabin, the chilly cabin, the poet drinks tonight. Wheeeee-eee-eee-eee eee-Um, um, oh wait...

I'm not really contemplating the Serengeti. I am actually writing, though. I've been pretty productive on the that front. Sadly, the poetry that I'm producing neither counts for class credit nor makes me any cash. Despite that, I'm pretty proud of some of it.

And I'm making nice with the local wild and domestic denizens. The wild tend to reveal themselves by sound alone at night. The domestic howl and cluck and stand in the middle of the road at the apex of blind corners. My favorite so far is the donkey I call Ed. Ed lives on a farm on my drive in. He's good for a laugh in the morning with his stumpy legs and two-foot-long ears.

This is my jungle.