The Hammer and I headed out to the farm country just as soon as I got home from a hard day's work and watching American fighter jets patrol our shared border for telltale signs of terror today. We drove past the spot where we used to walk when Hammer was just a little goat dog. The trees by where I parked when we visited that spot are always littered with empty baby oil bottles and festive looking lengths of toilet paper and other signs of people entertaining themselves with their bodies. People can fuck outside 24/7 for all I care but my imagination is much too vivid to be presented with a show of slippery garbage like that.
A buddy of mine used to like to fuck his wife while she leaned over a railing in the big Dope City park with the totem poles. They would watch people walk and run along the seawall while they wailed away. They were environmentally inclined and did not leave a trail of of anything but goo behind them when they returned to their car.
Ever the political theorist, I bet that rich motherfucker the vice-president of the United Staes of America shot was trying to have sex with him out there in the bushes of Texas.
The Hammer and I had the whole dyke to ourselves this afternoon. A cold spell is taking form so it was not exactly warm but the wind was mercifully light and the sun cast our shadows long as three periods of sudden death overtime on the shimmering winter grass. There is a bench carved with the initials of a thousand young lovers I sat on for the first time today as the western sky turned from the colour the Canadian hockey teams hope to have draped over their necks in Italy to a shade near that of a sky full of flamingos. A hawk, its belly lit bright, circled low overhead, one eye on the Hammer, the other searching for a kill. It is one of the great wonders of Canada to still find yourself alone with the landscape on such a fine day.
When I got home Sonja had been cooking. The good smell of home cooking on a cold day further lifted my already high spirits. I beered myself and dug in.