Porches (excerpt)

Off the rocking chair- I am calling to my dog, who has not come home for over an hour- but it is a warm strange February night- and I attribute it to the volcano erupting on the horizon west of here.  Not directly in front of me, but its rich colors seem to be adding depth to the pink sunset rolling over this valley. I am not as worried about the lava hitting me, evacuating- but in noticing that it is there, I am worried all the same. This all has been brewing for quite some time.  Low rumblings that I have tried to ignore- but sometimes quietly asking another person if they sensed it too- but then- there it is- flowing out.

An opportunity to look out- as you can do from porches- of life going by.  Beyond the tree line there is someone waving to me. It is then I squint, even though I have my contacts in and it does not make it any clearer, this habit of mine.  But there is this person waving to me- are they beckoning to me? It is hard to tell the direction of their hand from this distance. I am called to walk over and talk, but for now, I want to look out and see the expanse of possibilities from the porch.

The front of my house: This is the place where I can go to rest but be seen and see what is before me.  I decide take my tea to the back porch- sipping as I walk. Here it is. A bucket of red paint, a half spiraled canvas red and golden still open and waiting for me. There is some uncut grass- grasping for light seeking water, unkempt, growing in all directions. And there- unbothered by the sight of the destruction, or the people calling to me, I feel at home.

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