I got back to the country on Sunday night. Four nights of rain. I’ve barely left my house.

Some fierce wind today. Blew my front door open and I listened to it flap around. The wind ripped the screws right out of the door frame.

I watched as a strong gust wrenched the doors off the baby barn and threw them on the grass. Now the lawnmower glowers at me from across the driveway.

Out the back window: the river. Steel-grey and rising.

I get in the car and drive. Classic rock on the radio. I will trade you the complete Aerosmith discography for a working tape deck. I slow down at the train bridge and watch a freight train rumble across.

The train bridge is a mighty structure across the Salmon River. I slow down almost to a stop right in the middle of Main Street, watching the train, under the bridge, still driving, over my head, over my shoulder, through the driver’s side window, it comes and comes. Graffiti and petroleum. It’s important to see both sides of things.

At the causeway a muskrat wiggles across the road in front of me. Big wet rat is all a muskrat is.

I drive very fast along the empty country road. I got a headful of Hendrix, I’m feeling OK. Just me and Jimi and the need for speed. I’m goin’ down to shoot my old lady.

A deer runs up to the edge of Route 10 and stops. Go ahead, I dare you.

The car hydroplanes and goes into a skid. Bambi scampers away. The adrenalin rush is the release I’ve been craving.

I arrive back at Barton Drive (population: one) to find an RCMP car blocking the road. I signal left, and he pulls ahead out of my way. The Mountie gives me a gruff nod as I pass.

I watch the rear view mirror on my way down the hill. The Mountie backs up to his original position. Strange place for a speed trap.

Or maybe it’s for my own protection.