This Moment: Paris 20 May 2013

Cars speed down the narrow cobblestone road outside the hotel. Pigeons peck the ground. A man in an acid green uniform sweeps detritus into the gutter. Foey, Senso, Yolo and indecipherable tags are graffitied in black over the On passé La 6 stenciled on the facing brick wall. A bird chirps in clipped bursts in the tree outside my window. Motos line the alley. The curtains are open and a light is on in the apartment opposite. I now understand the urge to peer into the private lives of others. A woman with flyaway blond hair pulls a small suitcase up the street. The morning air is brisk. Pigeon voices murmur like muffled protests. We are going back to the city of the dead, Pere Lachaise cemetery this morning. I wish to find Colette and Oscar Wilde. My daughter Jim Morrison. An entire city block of marble that holds the bones of the famous dead. One more day is all that is left of our time in Paris. In the Louvre's women bathroom, I felt an urge to take out my pen and write my name in the hollowed out crevice between two marble wall tiles knowing it would be grouted and sealed, so that something of me would remain behind. Surreptitious graffiti as proof that I was here. The city feels familiar, as if we are returning to a place I've been before. Paris feels like home. After we have flown back across the ocean to our desert, the city will exist, in the land of dreams.

This Moment: 3:00 P.M. 27 December 2012

I wake from a nap dreaming of parking my car behind a building that is one part hospital rehabilitation center and one part tapas bar. I'm certain this has significance but choose not to ferret out the meaning. The snow is heavy in the trees. Branches strain under the weight. The old dog is breathing heavily. The small dog is grooming himself. Now he is turning circles on the bed until he settles and curls back into sleep. Car shuttle past, windows frosted with snow. In this light, the world is a paint by numbers in cool white, blackish green and slate gray. The small dog rises, small tail curled, growling and barking at a man walking on the opposite sidewalk. He is clad in dark blue and black winter gear, a heavy navy-colored backpack slung on his shoulder. He appears like a bruise in the snow. The old dog noses deeper into her pillow. I wonder if the bow hunters are huddled in the neighboring field, behind their blind, large geese decoys before them. During the snowstorm, I saw them searching the field for arrows in their hunter's white and gray camouflage. They said they felled three geese. I thought of the phrase "let it have been quick" from poet Leslie Norris' poem Hudson's Geese. Yes, if there must be hunters and hunting, let the deaths of the hunted be quick and painless. The men had been giddy and said they were "having a ball." As we spoke, geese flew overhead. The man called " geese" and the other two immediately sunk to their knees and crouched in the snow while the man blew into the whistle, emitting plaintive honk calls. The geese turned midair and began to descend. I left, not wanting to see death so close. I hear the gentle rumble of a train rolling down the tracks. The small dog is on alert at the edge of the bed, waiting for a violator to enter his territory. I tap my chest and he crawls into my lap and settles into licking salt from the inside of my wrist.

This Moment: Golden Braid Bookstore 2:07 P.M. 24 August 2012

A steady stream is flowing from a brass pipe onto a rock. The water slides from another worn rock and collects in a small rock-lined pool. A collection of pennies, and assorted change forms a capital "m" in the bottom of the fountain. I share the narrow bench with a Buddha, the size of a small child. I hear my daughter's voice at the back of the store. She is a woman now. Strange, how just yesterday she was a child I would have to remind to stay out of the fountain, that the money was an offering to luck. I know I showed her to make a wish, but I don't remember where or when. I have seen her take coins from her hand bag, close her eyes and fold into her secret self, then toss the coins and watch them sink. She knows to keep her wish a secret. Only she and the water know it's content. A bearded man in shorts and sandals is pulling cards from a nearby rack. He is leaning forward now, arms crossed, examining the selection. He walks to the other side of the stand, his shadow visible on the book case behind him. I have traded the hard bench for a wide bench with a cushion in the children's section. I am surrounded with color and images designed to foster joy. My companions on this bench are a raccoon puppet and books about blue horses and great art in numbers. A man in a blue shirt wears a smile so broad and warm I have to turn away. Why must I turn? A store employee brings a basket of lotion samples to try. I choose Moonflower. It is her favorite. She says it reminds her of her childhood, which I imagine, like my daughter, she left a few years ago. It has a hint of talcum and the distinct sweet and earthy notes of a freshly bathed infant's head. The young woman agrees and adds it smells like her old babydolls. It saddens me to wonder in which cardboard box or closet back her discarded dolls harbor inside. Each of us put aside the simplicity of our youth and then spend the rest of our lives in search of it. The lotion shimmers on my hands. The music switches from acoustic guitar to a woman singing happily in French about the tragedy of love gone terribly wrong. I am instantly aggrieved, and want to tell someone that broken love isn't funny, but then the playful trombone behind the voice points out it is an inside joke that the whole of the world is in on. I look to my companion on the bench and smile. The raccoon, trickster of the animal world would say "broken love is the best of jokes", if it could speak. Yes, I would have to agree. It is the best joke of all.

This Moment: Side Deck - 8:27 A.M. 23 August 2012

The morning air feels like an over-starched shirt. The days of summer are numbered. A man lumbers down the sidewalk in his green shirt, hauling his body as if it were a load of cordwood. The small dog is on the bed, his hind leg striking repeatedly as if it were rock on flint. Now he has settled into snapping at a fly. In little less than a month, the vibrant blooms of my flower gardens will darken and shrink into themselves. Soon the world will turn the hue of embers, dusty khaki, withered cornflower, then a stark bluish white. Yesterday, an enormous crow double-hopped across my back lawn to my back door. It knew I was only a few feet away, yet it advanced. I've read crows recognize human faces. I wonder if it knew me, if it has watched me the last few months as I planted and weeded and picked. If it hopped up my sidewalk every day, would I then be able to distinguish it from it's fellows when flew overhead? I am reminded of the dove that stood its ground as I approached last week. It did not fly away, even when I stood only inches away. The peach tree is bent with the weight of it's fruit. Three geese call out as they fly overhead, then disappear into the sun. A cluster of red tomatoes in the tangle of green vines, resemble grapes. A police siren wails, then suddenly stops, clipped. The jets have begun their assault on the morning's silence. I think to shake a futile fist at them. The old dog watches me from the sidewalk. The black fur around her eyes is streaked with white. Her eyes are alert, despite the blurry cataract light that dims them. The small dog curls it's warm body into my arm and sighs heavily. He shifts, scratches, then commences his elaborate bath, licking his fur clean, until he breaks off and meets my watching eyes. If I were to describe his expression, I would say guilt-ridden. Of course, in reality, it is an affect of submission to me, the alpha of the household. He rolls to his side and offers his small, warm belly. If I were able, I would enter the secret world of animals, I would roll on my back and offer myself up to a careful and loving hand.

This Moment: 10 July 2012 - DMV Drivers License Division

Every grey vinyl and metal seat for the first three rows is occupied by drivers waiting for their number to be called. 252 is now being served. Now 253 is being served at Window 4. A child directly behind me is listing the upcoming days and their temperatures in an alternating whining and sing-song voice. The noise in this room is as loud and assaulting as Walmart acoustics. My daughter has her blond hair piled on the top of her head in a loose knot. The skin of her forearm looks ghostlike in comparison to my olive. A child dressed only in a patterned diaper is pounding the chairs in front of where I am seated. It is unbearably hot outside, and despite the cool circulated air, heat lingers in pockets each time the door opens. Number 256 is called and my daughter walks to Window 7 to renew her license. The next time she is required to renew it, she will be four years older and experienced in the world as an adult and will no longer require my help. I wonder what the next four years are hiding behind it's back. It is likely my daughter may be married, with a child, my grandchild. I am certain the years hold departures in its tight fists. The test came back negative. A relief. Also a frustration. More blood tests are required to find the source of his ailment. The years will find the answer.

This Moment: Utah Arts Festival 23 June 2012

A man dressed in layers of orange, red, brown and white is shaking his sheepskin and rhinestone bedazzled staff, uttering something unintelligible that sounds like chickamagwa, which reminds me of the name of a Civil War battlesite. I ask him if it is a blessing or a curse. A blessing. We smile and he begins shaking his staff and shouting his mantra. The morning began with a blessing with Father Justin waiting in line at the Salt Lake Roasting Company. He was dressed in black orthodox robes and cap. I inserted myself into his silence by asking if he was an Orthodox priest and the nature and location of his order. He was gracious and friendly in his reply and grateful that I had not mistaken him for a Gothic. I have escaped the insufferable heat and am seated inside the library on a seafoam leather chair watching the throngs of festival goers walk past, stepping into booths to browse. My sprained ankle is swollen and I have my leg propped up over my knee for a momentary respite. I am a little surprised that every man seated around me is seated in similar fashion. A man is speaking loudly on his cell phone about getting a coffee. I hear children's voices, but do not see them. The man is now speaking Spanish, repeating the word quero loudly. He is laughing. Now whistling. A woman with all of her dark hair gathered onto the top of her head has stopped in front of me, finger to her chin as if she is considering asking for directions or trying to remember if she locked the front door. She swings her arm down and walks forward quickly. A man to my left is on his phone, hunched down in his tangerine-colored chair, apologizing and asking a woman for her forgiveness. A teenager is counting change in his pockets. A slight breeze has picked up and is tossing the flags and ribbons that crown the artist booths. A woman with NFL broad shoulders is popping her gum. She sets the newspaper down periodically to jiggle the baby stroller. A beleagured policeman is making his rounds in measured strides. I wonder if he counts his steps, and if does, how many steps has he taken today. The bullets on his belt are housed in dark leather and looks like small welts. I would never wish to have a gun strapped to my body, its intolerable weight resting on my hipbone.

This Moment: Imaging/X-Ray Waiting - 2:25 June 21, 2012

My Shrek-sized foot and I are waiting for our x-ray. If I have a broken bone, it will be the first of my life. Knock on wood, salt over my shoulder, spit on my shadow that it isn't. The couple on my left are arguing quietly in Farsi. I bite my cheek to keep from asking them how long it has been since they left Afghanistan. Inexplicably, a large model plane is suspended from the ceiling and is the lone decoration, save for a low-hanging mirror. The man quickly pulls out his phone and asks in English about his car's radiator, while the woman stares at him with a kind of muted intensity. A young woman with white blond hair pulled back into a loose pony enters and checks in with the nurse. She adjusts her shirt, pulling it down over her hips, and reveals a pair of wings tattooed across her shoulders. The woman turns around and I am surprised she is two decades older than I judged. The gray Berber rug is flecked with gray and black. The waiting room smells like stale anise-flavored cookies. A lumberjack of a man announces his presence with a declarative and a loud sigh, before he sinks into his chair. Aviation sunglasses rest on his large nose and I smile thinking his eye wear is in keeping with the decor of the office. He misunderstands and says, "Somebody needs to bring a drink cart around. I need me a whiskey." All the patients are startled, and look up from their phones and magazines. He laughs loudly and settles comfortably into his role of colorful character. His fingers are stained yellow. A smoker. I wonder how many packs a day. I would lay bets on two and one half. In the x-ray room the technician adjusted my foot on a thin black plate until my ankle was caught in the cross hairs of red light that look like an intersection of a landing strip. She placed a heavy protective jacket over me, then stepped into the adjoining room to depress the button. She reentered to remove the black plate and placed another under my foot, returning two more times to repeat the process. I asked her if the plate held film. When she said yes, it did, I told her about the artist Binh who transferred Vietnam War images onto leaves using the sun. On the way out the large man was the only patient remaining in the waiting room. Without an audience, he sat silently, his head resting against the wall. I imagine his eyes were closed behind his glasses. Back in the doctor's office, a nurse is asking each staff member individually if they were invited to her birthday swim party. I am imagining each of them in swimming suits and am keenly aware my thoughts are less than kind, and that I am in no position to judge. The nurse is stating that she will make certain to find a divorced priesthood holder to invite to the party for the nurse dressed in a floral scrubs. A doctor emerges from the Allergy Testing room across the hall with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Had I not just been weighed, I would have accepted. A patient down the hall is refusing the cookie in a flirtatious voice. The doctor standing outside my open door is receiving texts at rapid fire speed. He and the nurse are discussing her party. He, his wife, and children will be attending.

This Moment: 10:43 A.M. June 11, 2012

The ibis are back early this year. So are the arctic terns. They are out feeding in the newly cut hay field before they head for the island this morning. The deep burgundy leaves of my flowering plum compliments the multiple greens hues. A small daschund and it's owner dressed in matching black running shorts and sports bra trimmed in red, jogs past my home. The small dog barks a mixture of warning and greeting. He is nearly dry from when I sprayed off the mud he had rolled in on our walk. My neighbor, a large man struggles up the sidewalk and both dogs rise to their feet for a better look. He waves. I wave. By the end of the summer he will have lost the stomach that proceeds him. The flowers announce the season in vivid hues of pink, violet, fuchsia, scarlet, persimmon.

This Moment: Starbucks 10:08 A.M. June 8,2012

I am seated at a small table near a window with a view of a SUV-filled parking lot. Julia Stone's It's Alright set the tone of my day with it tale of strangely distant and unrequited love. The music playing in the coffee shop at this very moment is a jazzy disco attempt featuring a flute and synthesized drum beat. The more I focus on it, the more I feel the urge to scream Uncle to make it stop. The shop is filled with women paying homage to Queen's fat-bottomed girls song until a thin blond woman in cut off jeans shorts and a black tank enters. The bald man at the table next to mine looks up from his laptop for the first time, crosses his arms on the table and leans into his observation. He has a large black flattish mole the size and shape of my thumb's nail on his left cheek just under his hawk-like cheekbones. Suddenly he pulls a ball cap on. His focus has shifted to a muscular blond with a winged snake tattoo spread over her ample forearm. He is leaving now, laptop tucked under his right arm. He is much older than I first thought. I am reading a memoir of a woman who was abandoned at three by her omma in a South Korean market who has used travel and cooking to escape her loneliness. A small child and his buzz hair cut is skipping around the coffee displays punching the air and shouting, let's roll dude! Until his mother collects her drink and purse and repeats the same directive. Another woman and her crying son enter and head straight for the boys room. The man sitting across from me is all neck and muscle, his black soul patch nearly disappearing into his army chin. The woman and boy leave, broad smiles stretched across their faces. A beautiful older woman in wide cropped pants and peasant blouse resembling Puccini's despairing clown orders a caramel macchiato and I think to ask her how she gathered her courage this morning to dress for a role in the opera. She leaves and I watch until she drives away. When I am in Paris this fall I vow I will pull my long dark hair back into a tight bun at the nape of my neck and channel Maria Callas. A song from an era before I was born about not being promised a rose garden comes on and is my cue to leave and walk out into the day and it's bright unforgiving light.

This Moment: 9:06 A.M. June 5, 2012

The train passing through town sounds like fierce white water breaking over rocks. Birds are talking over each other, voices racheting up and up in a kind of layered synthesized composition. Both dog's are just inside the bedroom door rather than on the deck with me, the small dog's head resting on the threshold. A dove sounds the first mournful dirge of the morning. Tonight and tomorrow, Venus will transit the sun, signaling the continued emergence of women out of the deftly woven cloth of patriarchy. If only a planet's movements were actually able to affect human behavior for the betterment of all. Wild roses have grown around the trunk and branches of the Aspen trees and their burgundy blossom compliment the glut of green the season offers. A plane passes overhead and mixes with the unceasing stream of cars in what reminds me of television static when the channel goes off air. I am still thinking of the children begging for dollars on the streets a world a way. What will become of them? The geraniums in pots on my deck are a bright fuchsia, a pink that has drawn a bumble bee the size of my thumb. The bee turns away in disinterest and the small dog nips at the air, feigning a threat. It is 10:34, a muggy evening in Thailand at this moment. I am aware of this because my brother is there. My world expands and contracts with the movements of my family. The small dog is stretched out, asleep next to me. He is tired and still muddy from our morning walk. The dog remained behind this morning. Her eyes accused betrayal as we left. Yesterday, she wandered away and I found her turning circles in confusion. She is old. She no longer hears and her eyes are bleary with cataracts. It is only a matter of time. The air conditioner hums loudly, a lawn mower roars nearby, cars stream like flapping ribbons. Leaves rustle in the breeze, a gentle counterpoint to the increasing cacophonous tenor of the morning.

This Moment: 5:41 June 3, 2012

The small dog is yipping as if he is being stung repeatedly by hornets. His breath is rapid and labored. The neighbor's friend has brought her dog and its scent must be informing the air of its fertility. My small dog paws furiously at the side French doors, regardless of my admonitions, then turns to plead his case once again. Earlier this morning a thin black snake wriggled near my foot. I watched dispassionately as it scurried away into a clump of weeds. My daughter is on the bed texting with both thumbs. The small dog lies next to her, head up, alert to the threat of passing cars. The old dog sits on the bedroom rug, ears pointed forward listening to the cat yowl. A tank-sized black suburban lumbers slowly up the street. My daughter rolls off the bed and walks out of the room bent over her phone. A neighborhood dog is barking a high-pitched complaint. It seems all the neighborhood animals are on edge. For a moment I wonder about the possibility of an earthquake, turning the earth beneath my home to liquid sand. The passing cars sound like the drone of hornets swarming. I hear the dove that lives in the pine cooing in it's nest. Earlier it flew from the tree in a panic and knocked a small egg from the nest. I bent to retrieve the egg, thinking to place it back in the thatched hold, but the bloody yolk slipped out of the shell, revealing the black alien eye of the embyro. The heat of the day feels oppressive, like a hand pressing the small of my back, pushing me from one task to another. Both dogs are stretched out on the bedroom rug, their heads resting on their front paws. The dove is relentless with its song of loss and despair.

This Moment: 10:45 May 28,2012

Memory is a shoeless stranger staring right through you, as if you were a ghost standing on the pavement in the bright sunshine without a shadow to remind you that the world is made of light and darkness. From the other room a woman is singing over applause for her mama to cradle her again. This day of remembering will be over soon. It was a day of contrasts. I listened to a program where a man's deep voice stated that Americans don't have skin in the game, that a volunteer army of soldiers fight our wars while the rest of us shop at the mall. It is the truth. I laid peonies on my uncle's grave early this morning. He died at twenty-one for a sack full of lies in a war that brought that flaccid institution of monarchy crashing into the sea. It was the last feudal war. I wonder what he believed. The Beastie Boys are grating a discordant mix called sabotage, yet I am too comfortable wrapped in my blanket to get up and close the door on them. The cat voices her complaints from the top stair. Yesterday I wept as a man sang my country's anthem. I was surrounded by men and women in uniform, all of them saluting the flag. All of them have skin in the game. The house is silent save for the hum of the air pushing through the vents. I listened to another program in which men and woman stated their names, the number of tours served, and the reasons they were turning in their medals and refusing to serve another. All of them had skin in the game. I placed a vase of iris and peonies on my father-in-law's grave. He lost a leg to a Nazi Panzer shell. He bled into the cold French soil for three days until a medical unit could reach him. The old dog is resting next to me, her breathing deep and even. My own father served at the end of the second of the world's wars and was witness to what humans are capable of inflicting on each other. A train is passing through the darkness, its low whistle echoing against the mountains. We are all fragile beings made of flesh and bone.

This Moment: 9:17 A.M. May 19, 2012

I have taken refuge from the morning sun under my corkscrew willow. The neighbor two homes over is preparing for a wedding in her backyard. A backhoe is pacing up and down her driveway, making impatient turns while a work crew shovel rock around the perimeter of the flower beds. The story is a romantic one: two lovers meet again after thirty years. The small dog is whining and straining against his leash. A small plane barrels through the sky. The small dog has resigned himself to a patch of shade cast by a lawn chair. A woodpecker is abusing a nearby tree. I wonder how many times the bird must strike the tree before it reaches the insect harboring inside. On the way back from yard sale foraging I saw a line of flags, their red and white stripes folding and unfolding in the slight breeze. My uncle has a new tree planted in Veteran's Park for him. I have yet to stand before it. The cover of the paper this morning showed the face of a Syrian boy who lost his father to a sniper's bullet, and it is all any of us will ever need to know war. The jets have been flying all week, their testosterone-filled backwash setting my teeth on edge. A bird has settled on the covered awning directly above and shares the space with me. I am always surprised how fearless birds are under the shelter of this tree.

This Moment: 9:55 P.M. May 8, 2012

The trees are a thalo green under the ambient street lights. I can feel the dog's urgency, their noses pressed against the door's glass plane as they wait for me to shut the car off and enter the house. Once inside I will refill their water dish and make them sit before I toss a marrow bone treat into their open jaws. A man with a voice made of gravel is worrying his refrain that he doesn't think he can make it on his own. I silence him and am left with the hum of the car's engine worrying it's own refrain. The sky is lamp black. If I were to paint it, I would pour a bottle of ink on paper and smear the surface with my hands. I can not bear the silence, not with recent news running itself weary on the hamster wheel. Three thousand more are needed to prevent civil war. Three thousand and the entire world against one man and his tanks plowing through neighborhoods. The tree to my left is motionless. The chimes are impotent lengths of pipe in the sullen night air. A young woman is singing of her flaws and entreating her lover to kiss her hips. All any of us want is a little tenderness.

This Moment: 2:48 A.M. April 29, 2012

The minutes are passing quickly. I woke from a dream where I slipped between my former twenty-year-old self and my current self. Both selves were aware of the other and spoke of experiences and the memories of events in the same breath. The small dog is curled into a warm bundle next to me on the living room couch. I am embarrassed to admit Mick Jagger was the boyfriend from my dream. In reality he would be of grandparent age for my younger dream self and of parent age to my current self. I wonder what this aging rock star symbolizes in the realm of dreams. A train and its white noise is passes through town. The old dog comes to the threshold of the room, then reconsiders. She retreats back to her pillow. The mingled aromas of coffee, basmati rice and chicken korma linger. The house is silent save for the air pressing through vents. Another train, and I think its steady rumble sounds like reverb echoing against the mountains and passing over the heads slumbering below in the valley. The old dog is snoring in the other room. I hear her startle, then her nails on the hardwood. She enters the living room and positions herself near the couch. My eyes are growing heavy. The thought that the sky is blanketed with stars makes me feel less alone in the darkness.

This Moment: 8:43 P.M. April 26, 2012

I am watching the rainstorm from inside my car. Otis Redding is singing about wasting time. The trees that line the drive look like a mob hidden in shadows, slapping the ground violently with their collective arms then raising them upwards in a kind of orchestrated dance of hysteria. Rain on the windshield creates a kaleidoscope of twirling colors. I turn off the car radio when the news hour arrives. I can hear no more of the man sentenced today, his war crimes, the references to another litany of horror from another time, and its criminals. Lightening scissors the sky. The trees are illuminated in the flash. I cannot help but think we are all hidden in the shadows.

This Moment: April 23,2012

The old dog is still panting, tongue lolling out, recovering from our walk. We went further than usual and I can see she will suffer for it. Her pain pill has yet to take effect. I do not want to admit she is too old, or that I need to leave her home tomorrow. A small anger bubbles up and I know its arrival keeps the tears locked behind a heavy door. My father's legs have betrayed him. His steps are unsteady. With every passing year, he is bending closer to the ground like a sapling in strong wind. Sometimes, I believe I can will him to his former self. I am grateful for my anger, and for the almost tears prickling my nose. The small dog is curled at my feet, eyeing my sushi rolls. A motorcycle foists it's rumble on the evening. The neighbor two houses over is mowing her lawn in the familiar criss-cross design that is patterned like woven cloth. My corkscrew willow is a muted chartreuse in the evening light. A photograph from earlier today showed two powerful men embracing and promising "never again" and I wonder how many times will I hear this promise in my lifetime. An ice chip, like a small dagger stabs my heart when I think of what is happening to the people huddled in their homes, half a world away. A small bird in the uppermost branches of the oak tree is voicing a clipped warning to birds in nearby trees. I am surprised to hear the off key tuning of a trumpet and swivel toward the street to catch a glimpse of who could possibly be practicing on the sidewalk. The trumpet and it's owner have vanished and I think perhaps I imagined it. A dark-haired man and woman, chase after their child speeding across the sidewalk on a hot wheel trike. Their laughter warms the air like an embrace.

This Moment: April 21, 2012

Two robins in the cedar pine, are locked in a territory battle, wings fluttering, their small bodies spiraling from branch to branch. Another bird is clucking a knock knock knock while another sounds a trill. I am on the side deck with the dogs. The small dog escaped earlier and ran to the neighbor's. I found him on the back lawn, excitedly sniffing the female air, his nose pressed through the cast iron dog run, with Buffy, a blond toy poodle watching his efforts with disinterest. A small chartreuse aphid is crawling up and down my phone. I am writing with only my index finger so I won't smash it by mistake. A red-orange plane flies overhead to the west. The sky is a piercing blue with a plane's backwash a white bisecting streak, separating north from south. We have moved to the back lawn for a better view if our small world of runners, bikers, and steady traffic. The small dog is yipping his complaints, straining against his tether. The old dog is settled under the willow, scratching her right ear with her back paw. She leans into the dappled light. A dove is crying its dirge from the cherry tree, then is silent. The hay field behind my home looks like a sheet cake frosted with bright green icing. A small plane buzzes and dips eastward. The Rockies are tipped with snow. The snow horse will soon reveal itself in the crevices as the snow melts. I have sat too long. The day and its needs, await.

This Moment: 8:20 A.M. April 14,2012

The sky is making threats this morning . I am hoping for a day of the silent treatment watching the vast grey body as it sulks overhead. I am in no mood for another day filled with a torrent of tears. Birds are trilling the morning awake, layering the silence with a sweetly discordant composition. The flower beds have been cleared of detritus, their dark soil is moist and fertile. I am impatient to begin planting even though the season of frost has a month left to it's tenure. The view through my bedroom French doors is a large square of rich, lustful green, interspersed with delicate blush pink and white fruit blossoms. Cars and trucks rush past my window. A woman grasps the wheel with both hands, her gaze fixed on the road before her. This morning the cars and their drivers appear like children behind toy cars at an amusement park. The old dog's breathing is labored. She is a slight s-shape curled on her floor pillow. I have had her, or her me, for close to seventeen years. I do not care to think of a time when she will no longer follow me from room to room. The small dog is curled so tightly into himself he looks as if he might disappear. He sees me looking and unfolds slightly, offering a patch of his belly for a scratch. A small drab bird flits by the window. Another bird is suddenly angry, it's clipped calls a warning. Other bird voices join the quarrel and vie for attention. I wish I understood their languages. I am a foreigner in a country of birds.

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.