Counting

8:45am Eastern Time. Jacksonville, FL. Outside my window, the squirrel is holding a pecan in its gloved claws and chipping away at the husk. The shrimp plants raise their vivid heads. Their leaves won't take another 30-degree night. Already, they hang like limp flags, needle thin and stunned by last night's cold.

My house is clean except for a spot of wet catfood on the kitchen tile, ashes on my desk, toothpaste in the sink, rabbit pellets in the animal room.

Tomorrow I travel. Wake at 4:30am, take a ride to the airport an hour later, walk the gauntlet called Homeland Security, find seat 17A, land briefly in Charlotte, that nexus of boredom, and then fall into L.A.