It's Sunday, which means I'm doing things like piling logs into the wood stove (note the spectral reflection?), making a go of it at yeast-based bread-making, working on the Introduction to Raising Chickens, watching the sun set over the mountains from my office window, and looking over old letters from friends, including a correspondence with Ryan Adams from back in '91. It's funny, the people you meet, having no idea who they will become. The dogs are jostling for ownership of a random animal leg bone they found outside. That's actually an upgrade from the dead shrew Dexter was running around with this morning. I missed that he'd brought it indoors, where he unceremoniously deposited it beside the dining room table. Country living at its finest.
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