THIS IS NOT A DRILL

8:07 a.m., Saturday, January 13, 2018

Dogs somewhere up the valley — three of them, if I hear correctly. One

hammers its bark, bark, bark drumbeat; another moans its sotto voce

personal agony accompaniment to the lead growler’s dark warnings

toward any who might seek to exploit this sudden vulnerability. No!

Way! Jo! Se!

Then they all stop.

The pause evokes a feeling of uncertainty toward an empty future,

filled only eventually by a solo coda, a surprisingly gentle

authentication signature, a loyal canine’s “. . . forever and ever,

Amen” equivalent.

Another silence.

A passenger jet on slow approach.

Chickens.

Doves.

Fall

      ing

           wa

               ter.