Someone in the neighborhood is feeding the squirrels.
As I sipped the hotness of gas-station coffee , I marveled at the majesty of the brisk October sky.
It was a ‘Monument Valley‘ of depth and space. The mesas were capped in snow, and off to the right was the northern edge of a massive canyon wall, gray and black moving past him slowly, an omen of the weather that was creeping in from behind.
The nine o’clock sun made the wet grass vibrantly green.
The porch was getting cold. I stood to go in. A squirrel appeared out of nowhere and came to attention, blocking my way. Its’ tail was high, its’ eyes focused. It was obvious he was not afraid of me.
When I was not forthcoming after a good thirty seconds or so, he darted off to his next ‘mark’.
As I closed the door behind me, I paused. It struck me that I had failed to recognize the cathedral that was “Monument Valley, and the usher that was the squirrel, silently collecting kindnesses to share.
I hope “Rocky” stays safe until we meet again tomorrow to pray.