Is Served

3:49 AM. Coyote howls and raindrops falling on our tent embellish this. The former: thick and round and dangerous as smears of salted butter on the toast of the night. Decadent as honey. Or syrup. And the latter: in time to the ticking of that tomato bell that every morning sat and kept time by the strips of bacon on the stove, that funny little timer red like the flesh and plump like the fat, ticking away on that granite counter pink and salty and golden from inlets of yolk escaped from the flame. We could almost taste it.

Tick drop this clock is not broken drip tock it is in tune with the howls. Tick when is too much butter tock when is too much?

JJ Robeck