Nothing like a fire call to rouse you from after-dinner torpor.
The telephone rang shortly before eight. Again, the location was close by--only a mile away.
When I got there, the brush truck's strobes were flashing, but everyone was just standing around.
Apparently someone had dumped smoldering wood-stove ashes outdoors, and they caught some other stuff on fire, but the inhabitants and/or the neighbors put it out.
The truck left the fire house though, so there will be a report to file.
At least I was about 50-percent less frazzled in getting my gear together and getting out the door than last time.
"When I met you," M. said reproachfully on my return, "you were a poet."