Evening

The cool breeze of evening found me. I had been looking all day for the feel-good moment. After waiting for, what seemed like a life time, it envelopes me like a cloak. It swishes over my skin in puffs while the color of day fades to dim.

This is why I come here, why I love this place. I can look out at the hills sallow with evening, their certainty keeping me grounded. The sky above me a window pane, allowing me to see there is another side - the place where God waits for me.

A White Tail buck adorning ten points on thick beams of horn grazing not four feet from me on the grass I planted, lets me know I am giving back to nature. It has become symbiotic, nature and me, encouraging one another. A moment worth waiting for.

Journey

To Journal is to journey – down paths of words
Roads of words,
Highways of words,
Rivers of words
That take you places you’ve never been –
In your mind,
In your heart,
In your soul
Maybe UP paths, roads, highways and rivers is a better description

UP – as a spring or well were rushing upward and out of a deep place,
And mixing together with joy and sadness
Like salt and pepper,
Sugar and spice,
Sweet and bitter
The rough with the smooth
But happier at the end of it all –

For a journey not traveled
Is a life not lived –
A journal not written
Are words without life

The screech of a Bluejay sounds off high on a branch of the native pecan tree at the edge of my backyard. Hearing this scratchy sound any other time, I would make an effort to have a looksee so I could admire his velvety plumage adorned in various shades of denim blue. But today his presence is a vector of harrasment grating against my frazzled, sun-fried nerves.

After 63 days of smoldering summer heat pushing mercury over the 100 degree mark, after scorching endless days of drought, I am perched here to witness a soft velvety veil of water trail down from a flannel gray sky. The clouds alone bring relief from the sun, a silent persistant annoyance tormenting Texans for days on end. The orchestra of soft rain falls with crescendo, much like a passage of music. It is an ointment for weary gals like me in need of a soothing, restorative, healing balm.

The unwelcome bird above me only serves to interrupt the flow of medicine to my soul, provided by the rain.

The avian song continues without change for what seems like an eternity, effectively getting my attention. I now realize the Jay is merely in need of relief, as I am, from the oppresive high temperatures. The drapery of droplets pour enough water to form a pool in the street.

I knew I would hear the crass shouting again and again as long as the rain continued to fall. The big screech of the Bluejay would sound off to the neighborhood the same big joy I felt at the sight of a small miracle that brought 2/10 of an inch of moisture to my yard, leaving enough for a thirsty bird.