Double nickel, 55, today, a wonderful number on many counts. And spring rains tattooing the roof. One thing that happens when snow recedes and temps go up is that the town’s homeless folk wander further afield day to day and recently they’ve been working the walking trail and leaving their calling cards. Yesterday the hawks were making whoopie with great enthusiasm in the trees and afterwards one of them winged over to the nest for a look-see.  Friend of mine had to testify at a trial where a dog was shot, but lived. The accused claimed the animal charged him, forcing him to stab it with an arrow. The dog also got a subpoena, and no,  I’m not making this up. Having seen all the peppermint schnaaps bottles discarded along the trail it got me to wondering where the homeless of this community go when it is deep winter? We don’t have a real downtown, but more like a string of malls and strip malls.

It also happens that I started reading a new Rostnikov mystery by Stuart M. Kaminsky and learned only then that author Kaminsky passed away last fall after a long illness. Kaminsky, 75, had a PhD in communications from Northwestern where he majored in film and theater. He taught film and film history at Northwestern for 16 years, then Florida State for six years. He was the author of too many books to even begin a list. He said he wanted his epitaph to be “he was consistently good, whatever he wrote.” From your lips to god’s ears, Howard. I will miss Rostnikov and Lieberman and all your other unforgettable characters. Over.

Mass Elegy

Stuart Kaminsky died last fall

a sad fact learned today as

spring thunder dragooned above

with peckish mendacity,

god’s tears dripping in the air

over the loss of Rostnikov

and Chicago Cop, Lieberman.

It struck me only now how death

for authors is a mass event,

passeth not just a pen-pusher,

but all those pushed through the nib.

Warm Weather Discards