My feet need to be elevated so high onto the top deck rail the chair balances on a quarter inch of contact between it and the decking, one hand formed around a sweating glass of lemonade, the other making a louvered blind over my eyes squinting at the white heat of summer.

I need the murderous sounds of withering grass clamoring for water in my ear. Okay for maybe a day I need that sound. I’m scraping the pan for some emotion, something good to tell you. It’s been a hard winter here. Lots of snow and cold. But far worse has been the lag of light. The laps of flame from the fireplace have done all they can to help, but their persistent cheer failed in their valiant attempt to coax smiles from us weeks ago. Now the flames leap and crackle ignored. Even the heat’s no longer appreciated.

We traveled today. I had the normal travel joy, but damnably tempered. A bit under duress, strained, contrived even. Still I saw things I’d never seen even though we drove a mere 2 hours from home. Towns are like people. Shaped by all their past experience, each is unique. If you don’t command your eyes to see that a pecan tree in Arkansas is different than one in Oklahoma, the melding of one square mile of American dirt into another will make all pecan trees appear the same. Eyes prefer lethargy and laziness. I fight mine constantly. So far I’m winning.

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I think cabbage thinly sliced into a searing wok with a glug of oil and soy sauce served with an overeasy egg and several hard shakes from a bottle of hot sauce is in order tomorrow. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s sunshine on a plate.

An egg is tragically absent from the plate below. None were in sight the last desperate time I made this.

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