Cowboy waits for our morning walk, watching for signals of boots, hat and inhaler, probably thinking that Sunday brunch is for dudes.
Cowboy waits for our morning walk, watching for signals of boots, hat and inhaler, probably thinking that Sunday brunch is for dudes.
Recovery room: Neighbor with surgically repaired foot, friendly dog and lousy tv reception came over to watch BBC comedies on the dream ranch tube while spring winds gusted to 50. Cowboy stoic but watchful.
If I am the Ymelda Marcos of men’s outdoor footwear, Cowboy is the Butch Cassidy. Still stealin’ shoes after all these years.
Tests say Cowboy’s cancer has metastasized but he stills says nope to my tendency to mope. So we’re tryin’ to make the best of all days. And we’re lucky in Placitas to have friends and elbow room.
I woke up thinking of a stretch of Highway 395 in California, running up the Owens Valley between the Sierra Nevada and the White Mountains, a ribbon of road on brown earth under blue sky. I once worked there, from Round Valley down to Lone Pine. I remembered how hard it was to leave it the last time I visited, for a trail crew reunion, veering east near Big Pine, to head over Westgard Pass and home, the Sierra and the valley remaining in my view to the top of the Whites.
I drifted in my waking to the Georgia O’Keeffe painting “Road past the view II,” hanging over my head on the bedroom wall. I daydreamed of visiting both places, the Owens Valley and Abiquiu, in spring and concept.
Later, as I made coffee, I saw Cowboy out the backdoor, leaning against the stucco wall, sheltered from the March wind, soaking up sun. Cabezon stood out above him, 50 or so miles west under blue sky. A ribbon of road will get you there.
Where my head takes me. Where I want to be.
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Morning arrived bright and clear.
We had breakfast and prepared for the day.
Things started to change.
Glad I washed the windows Friday night.
dream ranch 