Arroyo Seco Morning
It’s a beautiful May morning, with a temperature of a fresh 65 degrees at 8:30 AM. Later in the day, the temperatures will rise to the low 90's, but the river will remain refreshingly cool.
I sit, with Jim’s dogs, on the beach along the Arroyo Seco. The dogs are terrific companions.
Senior Schnauzer, Oscar, takes short excursions to investigate daring grey squirrels and returns, satisfied, for the moment, until the next squirrel scampers out to tempt him.
Border Collie, Cajun, leaves my side only to retrieve the sticks I through into the river. He happily returns them to me, pressing his wet body, next to mine. Even though I squirm away a couple of inches to avoid his damp fur, it’s of no use. He insists on sharing my beach towel.
I wonder how the locals earn a living down here, an hour away from the nearest town, isolated by the curving canyon roads. At the “ripe old age” of 40, I feel like retiring, right now, in mid life. Just allow me a year to sit outdoors, quietly, in nature, to read and write, perhaps learning to weave a basket or two. I was too young for the “hippie thing” back in the 60s and 70s. Perhaps it’s my time to be a hippie now.
I came down here today to take a break from reality. The so-called reality of city traffic and asphalt pavement, of back stabbers and business, of envelopes with little windows, that come in the mail bearing “past due” notices.
Most of all, I am taking a break from isolation. You can’t really be isolated when you are out in nature, with birds, pets, and wildlife to keep you company. But you sure can be lonely when you are living in the middle of the city with humans all around you. Everyone’s too busy to say “hello” or pick up the telephone to lend a bit of encouragement.
Out here, in nature, the birds welcome you with a song, the sun shines on you, and everything shares its beauty without taking, or asking anything from you in return.
An excerpt from Where the Red Tailed Hawk Flies: When Jimmy Calls
Copyright ©1997 by Gabriella Graham/Red Tailed Hawk Publishing
It’s a beautiful May morning, with a temperature of a fresh 65 degrees at 8:30 AM. Later in the day, the temperatures will rise to the low 90's, but the river will remain refreshingly cool.
I sit, with Jim’s dogs, on the beach along the Arroyo Seco. The dogs are terrific companions.
Senior Schnauzer, Oscar, takes short excursions to investigate daring grey squirrels and returns, satisfied, for the moment, until the next squirrel scampers out to tempt him.
Border Collie, Cajun, leaves my side only to retrieve the sticks I through into the river. He happily returns them to me, pressing his wet body, next to mine. Even though I squirm away a couple of inches to avoid his damp fur, it’s of no use. He insists on sharing my beach towel.
I wonder how the locals earn a living down here, an hour away from the nearest town, isolated by the curving canyon roads. At the “ripe old age” of 40, I feel like retiring, right now, in mid life. Just allow me a year to sit outdoors, quietly, in nature, to read and write, perhaps learning to weave a basket or two. I was too young for the “hippie thing” back in the 60s and 70s. Perhaps it’s my time to be a hippie now.
I came down here today to take a break from reality. The so-called reality of city traffic and asphalt pavement, of back stabbers and business, of envelopes with little windows, that come in the mail bearing “past due” notices.
Most of all, I am taking a break from isolation. You can’t really be isolated when you are out in nature, with birds, pets, and wildlife to keep you company. But you sure can be lonely when you are living in the middle of the city with humans all around you. Everyone’s too busy to say “hello” or pick up the telephone to lend a bit of encouragement.
Out here, in nature, the birds welcome you with a song, the sun shines on you, and everything shares its beauty without taking, or asking anything from you in return.
An excerpt from Where the Red Tailed Hawk Flies: When Jimmy Calls
Copyright ©1997 by Gabriella Graham/Red Tailed Hawk Publishing