There is a small, rounded pebble painted sky-blue by the hand of a young girl before she speckled it pink and yellow with flowers. The pebble has been carefully placed, as though it was as fragile as an egg, upon a tuft of green grass that is growing in the thin layer of loose, leafy-black dirt which has accumulated through the years inside the scaly crook of an oak tree’s branches. The tree (just as the girl had) also holds the pebble as though it was fragile; and the tuft of grass, and the accumulated soil, cradling them all tightly under it’s canopy as the far-away sky roils, and rumbles. With swaying hands and stiff fingers the tree creaks and moans, warning away the storm, though it could us the water the storm would bring, as could the golden sea of grass rolling like waves around it.

But there is no chancing it now, as a connection was made between living things, and the tree would retain this precarious hold on it’s charge forever if it must until the girl returns… until the girl returns… until the girl returns…

a flash flood on the highway

everyone stopping

manic windshield wipers

torrential downpour

tires two feet under

on the east coast

where we all had to

slow down to see it

a rainbow over the mountains

invincible beauty

yesterday I saw a sign

here in California

“DROUGHT

2 Days Of Water”

and thought back

to when

there was enough

to saturate our thirsty desires

The grass sways gently in the breeze,

The trees, in sets of threes, are the only shade around.

Across the field of grass.

Between two clusters of oak trees,

Sits a swinging bench.

Sits a lonely bench.

It has no one to accompany it.

It has no person to swing on it.

All it has is little gusts of wind,

and piles of leaves.

The seas rumbled and roared and heaved, tossing black slabs of icy water into the wind. White tipped waves spitting foam and mist plunged snarling into depths roiling with currents strong enough to rip boats from hull to stern. Drums, thundering, pounding, unfurled into purple and black bellied clouds hanging low and heavy in the sky. Every so often, with a crack like a whip, fork-tongued lighting came lashing down in blinding streaks of silver and white. On that distant horizon, more rumbling thunderclouds bringing sheets and sheets of heavy rain. The winds, having rallied, came hurtling down in a deafening cacophony of screeches and shrieks and screams. The sea, black bodied and thunderous, rose to meet it, roaring a challenge with its gaping maw parted wide.

Thick the wood,

dense canopy.

Long shadows

dance. Cool breeze

swirls the leaves

that were cast.

Bird song thrills,

crickets join,

bullfrogs base

keep the pace.

Harmony.

The grass is tall like corn, but it is thin like grass stems taller than teenaged us. Yellowy, beigey, sagey-greenish wave after wave of grass stems all around and over us, and us with our fishing gear tramping around, watch the tip of your pole where you’re going, trying to see through all this corn-like grass and going in circles, I think. Scuba divers in murky water can see this far ahead. Where are we? Blue-golden sky is above beyond the lanky grass frills way up there.

“I didn’t know grass grew this big.”

Now with the cows. The mooing is all around us, mooing, snorting, mooing from any direction, every direction. One from there. One from there. One’s over there now. A heavyness behind those moos, and we’re suburb kids sowing our oats, and we don’t know: How close are they? and how many cows? and do cows charge?

”Wait,” says my brother. “Are they cows or are they BULLS?”

”How the hell should I know?”

”Do cows charge?”

“I don‘t know,” says Chad. That’s who got us into this. Back side of the lake. Come on. Let’s do it.

”Duuude,” my brother contemplates.

“Wish I could fly,” says I.

“Where‘s the lake?”

”I don’t know.”

”Dude, shut up. I think I hear something.”

”Yeah, no shit. It’s cows.”

”Or else bulls.”

There’s quiet and then there’s cows again (or bulls). Sure sounds like they’re surrounding us, the mooing-honking-mooing-snorting-mooing all around us getting closer, now at times from new directions, weird directions—did they move or is that a new one?—hidden, hiding cows all stalking us from this ocean of oversized grass.

”Where are they?”

”I don’t know.”

”Can’t see anything.”

”I know.”

”Where’s the water? Where’s the friggin’ LAKE??”

”Sure wish I could fly.”

So much for this way. Don’t think we’ll ever get out of here. No idea where’s the car, we just wanted to see some fish that had never seen a lure before, and NOW look at it, it’s all just grass and cows we walked into. Or else they could be bulls. And I sure wish I could fly. This is not a good way to die.

Ahhh! Hey y’all! Well it’s a sunny day out here, we are on the white sandy beach at Gulf Shores national park in Alabama. The breeze is perfect comin’ off the ocean, and the water is just right to wade into.

It’s not too crowded here this weekend and I love watching the young families

with their children playing and building sand castles. Some people are playing with their dogs in the waves, haha, it’s really funny to watch.

Uh oh! Some sea gulls are stealing some picnic food! They are tricky birds and smart too! Oh! Don’t leave the door to your camper open or your tent or you will have a covey of feathered friends making a mess of everything eww!

As I look out towards the west, the hottest guy just walked by! Wow!

Ok composing myself.

Around me it is beautiful.

The leaves on the trees,

delicately coated with droplets

of rain-

are greener than the greenest

emeralds.

And the river

Oh! The river-

it sparkles,

clearer than glass

and brighter than the whitest

smile.

Here there are the loveliest orchids

and hummingbirds hover around them,

feeding joyously.

Here there are creatures incomprehensibly

unique,

creatures that you can find

nowhere else.

Here there is light,

there is beauty,

and there is life.

Stark white snow falling over a beat-up gravel path,

The spirit of winter in the air, the smell of spruce and dampness,

Sun rays shining as bright as a lover's laugh,

The drip of melting water becoming a rhythm bound to impress,

Even the weariest of souls.

Late July

and the concrete burns like charcoal embers

We dance and skip across the driveway

like pigeons playing hopscotch

The grass is bright and green and cool

A blanket on which we play

Leaping through the sprinkler

Like tiny madmen on fire

The air smells of earth and sun and joy

Lips stained red and blue

And we stretch and grow as the sun feeds our souls

Time is an abstract concept

Punctuated only by the grumble of a hungry belly

Wrapped in brightly colored towels

We sit and shiver and with hurried bites we eat

And only stop to sip the tinny, ice cold water from the hose

The sun is setting in colors that blaze across the atmosphere

Fiery at first then pinks and blues

A perfect cotton candy sky

Warm breezes that wrap around our bodies like a blanket

The smell of jasmine as it opens to the moon

The night is languid and fills with stars

We catch them in our hands

They blink and fly and disappear

In Late July