I was supposed to be doing this writing, but...

I was supposed to be doing this writing, but my fingers stopped working. I don't mean they stopped moving. No--they tapped and rolled and tensed and released. They passed interesting sounds back and forth, one hand doing the wave, then right index finger against left in a dueling duet. They experimented with taps on the keyboard and on the table and on the skin, finding that each surface sounded satisfyingly like the raps of a childish drummer in a civil war marching band. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat rat-a-tat-tat-tat rat-a-rat-rat-rat-a-tat. They enlisted my leg--the one that always wants to keep time--and suddenly I was all tapping. Not writing. Just tapping, but not just, because I was looking out the back door at the pear tree, slightly less burdened with each passing day, and at the deck, slightly more burdened and stinking from rotted, fallen pears, and as I looked, I thought I might like to dance on that deck under the pear tree and really let the tapping loose.

[Meanwhile, the fingers persist through my daydream. "I wish I were in Dixie, hooray, hooray; I wish I were in Dixie, all the good boys are in Dixie. La da da da dum dum da da doo doo doo da dum dum dum da dum da dum dum da da doo da da doo da da doo da da dum."]

How lovely to be under the pear tree instead of here not writing because my fingers aren't working, having taken a vacation to the town of tap.