Would it not be sad if life didn’t speak to us? What if the heavens were silent?

When I was on a walkabout down south, I crossed a bridge over a muddy creek I’ve crossed many, many times. Still the slow muddy creek ran. Raccoon and deer prints were stenciled in sand and clay. Herons waited like gargoyles on their skinny limb-legs.

Drove north several hours. Prayed and thanked God and families for my brothers and sisters who died while still serving in uniform during a ceremony commemorating those who laid it all down.

Got home. Piddled in the yard. Went to the pool with the bride as she sunned her pretty skin and I read more of a novel called The Overstory that I’m appreciating.

Came home. Piddled some more. Raked and picked up limbs and tended to some honey-do requests. Some deer walked up after I had used the weedeater.

The clouds overhead played with me. Sometimes they came between the sun and me. The leaves would appear a different shade then. Then the clouds would move and I would notice a fallen limb, with its grain running a pattern, or a dogwood that held blooms from April, or the deer’s nostrils pulsing black and bloodfilled as she smelled me, smoky from burning limbs I’d picked up earlier.

Speech was occurring, you see. Speech. As if there was a speaker. As if creation bespoke its author.