I came home tonight from the gym at ten o’clock, ravenous, to find leftover chicken BBQ on the dinner table. So I dropped my bags, haunched over the table (too hungry to sit down) and started inhaling a drumstick. Outside the kitchen window, the hedge whacked into the pane suddenly. I froze, staring into my reflection: I stood over my food with my hair on end, arms outstretched, and chicken in my cheek, not much differently than my dog does when Damon looks at him sideways. But I wasn’t about to run to the window for a face off, up close, to see what I was up against. Instead, I stood there, chewing the meat, guarding my kill and watching the bush sway back and forth; all I could see were the illuminated leaves beating against the glass. After a few seconds, it ceased.
I kept a blind eye on that black window, until I was convinced the animal had either left or settled comfortably in the bush to stare at me while I ate, and then I licked my greasy fingers and continued engulfing bird parts.
Commons Ford Ranch
We’re on the cusp of Spring, you can smell it in the damp air like pheromones. Grass shoots tint the meadows, still covered with leaves. On some property near home, Chas ditched his wellies to run sockfooted down a long dirt trail, his cheeks bounced up and down as he ran and sang. He shoved his head into a hole in a tree, shouted, and plunged his foot into a burrow near the creek. Life was hidden everywhere. But closer to the lake we passed under a gossiping flock of Red-Winged Blackbirds, a throaty playful labyrinth of song in the pecan treetops. Once we were directly below them, and they noticed us listening, all talk ceased and the troupe flew away like a fluttering, carefree black veil. Chas followed them with his eyes. It was quiet like that for a few seconds, before Ford started belting out White Stripes lyrics (I still have ‘Blue Orchid’ pumping in my head). On the drive home, close to dusk, a very large Coyote jumped the fence into the chaparral. I shouted and pointed it out to the kids, almost running off the road, but when I looked back at them, both heads were buried into the sides of their carseats, asleep.
SPT: All of Me :week 2
This is my vice. I remember trying to stop biting my nails when I was about eight. There was a small vial of Stops-It or No-Bite or something, which tastes bitter. It worked for a while, but long enough. Look at this! I can’t believe people see me do this. Yet, whenever I have a dry cuticle, it has to GO, and the fastest way to remove it is to….bite at it?
I’ve just set a new goal for the year. I’m NOT going to walk around looking like this.