I am out on the deck, in the not quite dark, with the not quite settled dogs. There is a old radio on the top of the fridge now, bought at an estate sale down the curvy mountain road for five bucks. There is a deep memory rightness about it being there in the kitchen. I can hear guitars and a man's voice singing but I cannot make out the words. The crickets are racous loud. My hearing is going and my knees are stiff. I'm drinking an autumn beer and waiting on the lunar eclipse.