Monday, July 28, 2025, 63.6*, 0715
I push the coffee button. Ruger stretches, walks stiffly toward me for kisses; sits on the rug that holds out chenille fingers to grab incoming things. I push aside the linen curtain dirty in places snatching hair as the three pass in and out, slide the door. Ruger carefully steps down. I turn off the AC. Zsolt and Zayne, eager to see me, listen for the tap of my cane. Only the Red-eyed Vireo has anything to say this gray silk morning.
The three are no longer startled by the sight of blueberry bushes between the fence and falling into boulders space; they have already mapped that change and the associated odors. Have they mapped the common evening primrose that thrives in sandy fill beside the container, beside a driveway oak—places easy for deer to walk, to eat in silence while we sleep? Have the three seen the common evening primrose that grows through the brush beside the boulders, do they see the yellow blossoms? Is that where the buck was headed the day we saw him closer to the house? He ran when Zayne began jumping, barking, the other two joined in the barking keeping feet on the ground.
July, last year, there were no flowers, only disturbed earth: stark as if in mourning; no ornaments, no color. Now, the scar of rearranging earth for people has become a celebration.
Growth stopped for a season has rooted new beginnings.
Photo: LJ Austin
