Yesterday, a group of burrowing owls who have made their home in a large hole near a seldom-used path flew off just as we walked by at dusk. One bird stood watching like a sentry until we passed, and then returned to the hole. The sky was filled with the indescribable colors of dusk. Bird, sky, and hole in the earth.
A little farther along, the footprints of
a mountain lion driven out of the mountains by drought. Resilient nature. Unless
someone with a gun comes along.
Meanwhile, I spend hours scribbling a few
words and afterwards revise them repeatedly. Occasionally, my words occupy
space in some literary journal. And I wonder: am I taking a place on the page
that should go to someone more deserving?
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