Tecolote on the Brazos

Once alongside the Bravos River in southeast Texas I spent a night with a woman whose hair glistened black in the arid moonlight. She swore she was a native. I didn't believe her, to my dying days I'll believe I was right. She lacked the necessary passion. She talked too much. There was the question of the owl.


There's the particular scent of a woman. There's also the sound of a woman. Intimate sounds. Barely registered sounds. Sounds that sear. Sibilant Spanish S's that say yes. The just audible breath that catches with the moan of a dove. A sharp intake of breath, its urgent release.


To borrow a phrase: My whole life I cheated days. As if I were the blank tape recording moments for safe keeping.


Once alongside where the Rio Grande and Red Rivers meet in the high desert of northern New Mexico, I heard what sounded like - because to compare is to record - an owl. I swear to you she sounded like an owl.

A Book and a Chair

For over a year now - maybe as long as two, I'd lost the connection to words and sentences and the necessary life they provide. Losing the sweet rhythms of language, I lost a part of myself. I wanted it back, but I didn't know how to find it.

And then a friend gave me a book. It doesn't matter the title, the author, but it was a book that slowed me down, put me in a chair, and embraced me. Teased out the what I'd been looking for. It made me take pencil to paper, now fingers to keys, to write this and thank her.