The sky is a soft gray ceiling, the air damp and cold, my skin dimpled like a basketball. When I lived in the desert, I yearned for such a day.
I used to climb up on my parents’ roof to watch the sun melt like butter over the rose-and-cerulean horizon. Twenty years later, the evening sky from my parents’ place is still that beautiful.
The chir of nighttime insects and the wide dark blue of the moonlight sky over the Texas Hill Country is not nearly as pleasant as a long, late-night conversation with my brother on our parents’ back deck. (Oops! I missed last week’s “small stone”! But I forgive myself, because I was preparing to fly across … More Small stone, Vol 2, #10
An afternoon on the couch, back flat and knees bent, the dry pulpy scent of paper and ink, the rich texture of a world unfolding in fine brushstrokes of words.
A few minutes ago, I helped a stranger cat to die. Not directly, but it was close enough. He’s a street cat, beefy and tough and full of spit and bravado. He’d been hit by a car. I think his hip is shattered. With the help of some neighbors, I coaxed his broken body into … More Small stone, Vol. 2, #8
The fading echo of the muezzin’s adhan blurs into the rising songs of birds awakened from their roosts in the minarets.
I wanted to write a haiku today, for Japan. But nothing I could write would ever feel sufficient enough, or delicate enough, or helpful enough. Then I found this video post from Jenn, an American teaching in Japan, and her words are excellent. Better still, she offers links and suggestions for ways to help Japan … More Small stone, Vol. 2, #6: SPECIAL JAPAN POST
Watching the street cleaner scoop up paper cups and faded wrappers, one smooth sweep of his long-handled dust pan, I remember when I cleaned houses and gas stations and grocery stores for a living. And I realize I can no longer do those things. I have lost the skills. I have developed new skills to … More Small stone, Vol. 2, #5
The dark setting sun like a copper coin in the sandy clouds.
All day I have stuffed my ears with music like soaked cotton; now, the gentle thrum of distant construction, the drift of passing traffic, and the quiet afternoon breeze feels like my eardrums exhaling.