I believe this in my 67th summer: In New Mexico in August, white is whiter, blue is bluer and green is greener. That is all for now.
I believe this in my 67th summer: In New Mexico in August, white is whiter, blue is bluer and green is greener. That is all for now.
Monday, Aug. 8, 2016
Sometimes empty is too much. Sometimes clouds are everything. Change is slow. But oh …
The weather technicians say it is the start of the monsoon, but I still balk at the New Mexico use of the term. It works when I’m reading Joseph Conrad, but it seems out of place as I gaze at the Pajarito Plateau. Against the grain of my newspaper training, reluctantly using two words instead …
Thank you, friends of Cooper and John. Your notes and kindnesses meant a lot to me after Cooper’s passing on June 11. It lifted my spirits to be reminded that so many of you were Cooper fans, too. I have been short on words since his death. The trails are clear, but I still pause. …
I was down in the dumps for a while but then realized I was reading only about Trump, Custer and the newspaper business. My spirits are lifting now. I know there is no saving of the newspaper business as I knew it, but I remain hopeful about journalism and journalists. I foresee Trump following in …
Front coming in and tonight’s walk looked like an Ingmar Bergman film, even with the inartfully named Fendler bladderpods coloring the way, but I refuse to be gloomy. Coop and I got in a little exercise in and around our meditative rest stops. Cooper sniffs the air. I take pictures. At least we stretched our …
April morning, after the storm. Birds here.
Head kept getting lost in the clouds.
One big photo op.
