This Moment: 5:30 April 9, 2012
The narrow plane passing overhead toward the Rocky Mountains looks tropical fish-like with it's striped undercarriage. I am sitting by the edge of a wheat field on a plastic chair I imagine, by evidence of beer cans strewn about nearby, a teenager hid in the thick trees. A bike's electric wheel buzzes from the lane. A starling flies overhead, diving slightly, warning my invasion is tolerated, for now. The dogs are resting at my feet, their ears alert. They are waiting for my signal to resume their investigation of every weed in the underbrush. Tonight it is only men and women bent over their bikes. The small dog is a wheel chaser. He is a miniature wolf, small canines bared, bark guttural and ferocious. He has nearly worn through another release leash with his straining. The old dog, in her youth, ran at breakneck speed. Now, when we walk, she limps at my side until she slows and stops to rest in the shade. The light is warm and bright. Each green leaf competes for attention. Pollen floats in gossamer strings like spider's silk. A plane as large as an ocean liner hangs motionless in the air as it slowly turns and cuts west. From the air the bikers, myself and the dogs must appear as insignificant as insects. The news of the morning reported gunships over cities firing on civilians. My thoughts are thick like dark oil. The small dog looks expectantly back at me, strains against the leash I have secured under the chair leg. He whines, then gives my ankle a lick; a kiss, his exchange for continuing down the trail. The world and its machinations are of no consequence to a being who is a creature of the moment.