On Zimmerman Farm

It's one of those mornings, clear but not bright, grass wet with dew. Silent birds fly overhead in small scattered groups, moving to some master bird plan, all in the same direction. I call this place a farm, but that's too grand a name. My dirt road curves from far away to nearby, fading a few feet from the house into unkempt grass and wildflowers. Beside the end of the road is my garden, large as gardens go, but hardly a farm. It's enough to keep me occupied. I play at selling the produce, but I'm lucky to give it away before it rots. I couldn't possibly eat it all. People ask what I'm doing here, but I never know what to say. I often wonder why everyone doesn't live here.

Sometimes, while digging around in the dirt between the rows, I'll carry on conversations with Bob Dylan. He haunts the woods that line the edge of the field. During the day the woods are no fun, so he comes out to my garden and we have long talks about outer space or chess openings or sexual escapades. He never likes to talk about his life as a musician nor about the sixties. He just shrugs off all those questions. Lately he's been interested in World Cup soccer, asking me about the teams from various countries, conjecturing which nations would have the strongest teams and which events in their history would contribute to that strength. I've told him several times that I've never even seen an World Cup soccer match, but he always asks me anyway. He's funny like that.

At night the woods are hopping, but I never go in there. Why? I think it's because I know that if I went in there I would never come back. What would happen to my garden then? If I sit on the dusky porch and listen carefully, though, I can hear his clumsy harmonica drifting across the field. Once in a while I'll hear a scream of laughter or a howl. "Bob Dylan isn't even dead yet," my friend told me one evening when I asked him if he could hear the music. "He can't haunt those woods if he's still alive." Bob thought that was a funny way to look at things. I agreed.

"The dead don't follow the rules," he smiled, "so why should I?" I knew what he meant. Some things you don't talk about. Some things you just do, like music, or the sixties, or gardening.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.