Here's the church where I ended up yesterday after a walk through a larger small town of 5600 people. I followed the churchbells and looked out over the water at autumn happening in every direction.
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After the church with locked doors (I tried), I ended up at another church, The Church of Used Books. I lost track of time and entered that space where time moved without me. In an old book by Theodore Roethke, I found my favorite marginalia. Under the poem, "Weed-Puller," a stranger had written, "What is he digging at?"
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A construction worker asked me if I wanted job. I said I'm happy enjoying the day.
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Later I walked by a second bookstore who had a painted letters on their window that said, "Sherman Alexie Reading!" but someone had erased the R and it took me a moment to figure out what a "She man Alexie Reading" was.
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I was out in my poetry shed when a thunder and lightning storm passed above. I survived.
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