It is late in the day, the wind is still, the grass is green and there are seven lazy clouds in the sky. There are mosquitoes and flies that bite, bugs that crawl and frogs, too. He is a man of an age that is not important from a time that was very important, and there but a few things important to him now — family, his grandkids, reading by the light of the same lamp he read from as a boy. And of course, fishing is important, too.
It seems that even within the woven fabrics of an early morning, the sun always lurks.
I see artwork and stare. My eyes follow the lines, and I study the colors. My mind processes the shapes, curves, jagged edges, the shabby and the abstract.
They say we never forget our first. In this sea of life, there will be buoys of a first lost tooth, first hit in baseball, first vehicle, first kiss and the first time you camped beneath the stars.
It is not as much a walk as it is a shuffle, and this is how he moves down the bank. He is not as old as the trees around him, and he doesn’t hear the birds above him as he once did.
It used to be that camouflage was something worn to be hidden. The concept is simple enough, and ever since man learned of the need to hide to hunt, he has used the concept of blending in with colors.
If I could describe the witnessing of darkness becoming light, it would be a careful unwrapping of a surprise gift.
"Waaaaa waaaa waaa waaaa waaaa waaaaaa wa waa waaaaaa.” If you understood this, then you know Charlie Brown. More importantly, if you understood the unmistakable voice of the never-seen teacher, then you know, or at the least appreciate, Charles Schulz.
The shot is in the air, and the fans are hushed with hope. Everyone saw the catch, jump, release and the ball slide through the nylon net.
The work of the day was done, and she watched from behind the white and blue curtains as he walked to the house.
She was once blonde and young, and her skin was warm and with life. Now she is old, shuffles to walk, takes long naps, and her skin is thin, white and cold.
Sometimes you watch. It is late in the day and the moon is early, curtseying in the sky.
He has a splinter in the index finger of his right hand, and he looks to the eyes of his father.
If all good stories have a beginning, then this great story really does not begin nor does it end.
She smelled like skunk, red dirt, old shoes, weathered leather, wild onions, wet leaves, molded straw and the dark side of the barn, where the sun never shines and last week’s rain puddles.