A Dog's Eye View

I get down on my knees on the ground. Nose to the grass. Level with the white blooming onions. Eye-to-eye with the magenta monkey lying over there where the dog dropped it yesterday.

Far in the distance, two compose piles rise up, concealing secret squirrel haunts where the gnawed hulls of acorns sit in a pile that grows daily. Sparrows hop at the feet of the Photinia.

The dog looks at me from the patio, wondering what I'm doing.

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Redbuds, Geeky Things, and Trudy

The Redbuds in Austin had started blooming. And off I drove to Houston, where of course the weather was warmer and Redbuds and Azaleas and much else were beginning to flower -- including the Oaks, laying down a blanket of yellow on everything.

One evening Bert and I sat in his living room dimly lit. He strummed on a guitar as we talked about, I don't remember just what -- his motherboard for one, and geeky things of that sort. Into the night we sat there as Orion descended behind the Pines.

The skies were blue that week, and on Thursday as I looped around the city for the four hour commute home, the sun set red into the cloudless west again as the traffic inched along. Before Katy, things were moving -- it was only Thursday, after all, and there were 6 lanes of freeway to choose from. By Columbus it was dark, and the stars were shining brightly overhead. In La Grange, Jackson Browne on the radio began to pull me home.

And when I drove into the driveway, late in the evening, the fair and industrious Trudy was there. Somehow she knew when, and she was there sitting with her back against the Ash tree, smiling, when I came home.

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