On Father’s Day, Kiddo and the Warthog made me pancakes in bed. Unable to leave the room as they prepared them, I lounged, reading Goodbye to a River. John Graves writes of Texas oak stands, clearcut, plowed, grazed, farmed — the silt washing down into the Brazos, being swept into the Gulf, swirling and dissipating as it rounds Florida and empties into the Atlantic, molecules and memories drifting, drifting…
After we got married, but before we had kids, Mrs. CWD and I went on a trip to Africa with the rest of my family. In South Africa, I watched the professional tracker at the front of the Land Rover, perched atop the jump seat, watching for prints in the dust. Leopard came through last night; made a kill; dragged it; look, there — and then, an impala carcass, hanging from a tree. All this at twenty miles-per-hour, through dust clouds, casually, so casually…
Been hiking with Doggie more frequently lately; been trying to get her into shape for mountain tops this summer. She turns nine …
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