Memorial Day weekend started on Thursday night for man and beast.
A lovely scattered burst of wicked thunderstorms, yet more rain on soaked soil, even the mountaintop puddling. The road to the old "Boar's Den" and the county line bootleggers were happy to do a booming business. At the same time the traffic started, two cats got in a tanglement right under the camper's door, squalling, hissing, and the fur flying.
One may presume the birth of kittens in about 62 days. There may or may not be two-legged babies around the end of February, the variety that grow up, go to work in dying factories, get drunk at every excuse, and then repeat the steps to slow demise of the species on their way to a pain-pill hazed burial plan (sometimes).
About 3:00 a.m., someone shot a large caliber long gun at some critter lurking in the dark. Four times. Boom, boom, boom, boom.
Top that off with crappy, varied, loud music, and a neighbor who mows the lawn at 6:00 a.m., and a fine time was had by all.
Those cold, gray stones sleep in orderly rows, secrets forever reserved, only bones, memories, and the crawlers of the night privy to their hollow echoes. Fake flowers drooping in the rain, fiery sparkles of light decorating cedar, juniper, and spruce as sunrise blasts a brief gold on those forgotten altars.