A BAT ON NOB HILL
And, as you might very well shper, the middle of winter is not optimal bat sighting time.
I am quite fond of bats. Entirely aside from their lamentable habit of relieving themselves all over themselves, because they are hanging upside down, and too darn comfortable to get up (down) and go fly over some pigeons.
After seeing the little fellow flitting around, I stayed on that stretch of street for a while, hoping that he would return. Maybe he did, but if so, too quick and flickety to notice. Especially after the sun had set.
The weather these past few days has been very nice, for this season.
I've opened a tin of a pipe-tobacco I smoked at the same time last year, the fragrance of which one year or so ago prompted intense memory replays, made more vibrant because of the nicotine level. Greg Pease's navigator has increased in fruitiness after nearly twelve months of age, but the subtle sting of a fire-cured leaf is still perfumily present.
Nicotine is a stimulant, and works on the memories.
There is no connection to peaches.
But yet there is.
I prepared dinner long after coming home. I would have enjoyed another pipefull after that, but it was rather late. And, because of an apartment mate who is, remarkably, not into bats, I would have had to step outside to enjoy it. There is little fun wandering around in the chilly dark night, by oneself, and not even able to see the bats.
Though one might hear them.
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