The swallows are in training for their flight home. They disappear during the day for long stretches, stretching their wings, building strength, getting the little ones ready.

It’s a lovely day in the neighborhood. We have clouds, which means the morning sun can give us a show, and it did so. I spooked a small herd of deer when I walked out my gate to get a better look.

Busy days. I’m getting ready to have my roof replaced. Hail damage. Made it look bad. Nothing structural. Apparently, I had a rider that said they’d replace it if it got dented.

I made music yesterday with two friends. If you ever get a chance to make music with two friends, do it. We’ve played together off and on for about four years, taking our opportunities when they present themselves.

I’ve always noticed have’s and have nots. Maybe it goes back to me watching the movie Dr. Zhivago and the scene where Lara stands outside the restaurant window, starving, while inside the royalty wine and dine…

There was a house in Marathon that made me wonder. It was directly across the field from the house where we stayed. It was abandoned.

A bird hit my window yesterday, it appears to be a juvenile goldfinch. It was fatal. It makes me sad when the birds die at my window while flying toward what they believe to be blue skies and trees.

Well, I’m back from Marathon and I’ve gone from having my day intensely planned to having no plans at all. The day once again stretches out before me, empty waiting for me to fill it with whatever strikes my fancy.

I’m still learning. Things. Skills. Information. I have curiosity and the willingness to listen. My journey to Marathon this week is a microcosm of my journey through life.

Took a dip in the spring at Balmorhea yesterday. A long dip. We got there early. Staked out our spots. Inflated the floats. Got into the pool. We floated and talked. Friends arrived. More friends arrived. We met new friends.

A final bit on my grief story. My three children. They’ve all been supportive. They backed me on my decision to move their mother to memory care, and they’ve been there for me since she passed.

Yesterday’s grief story, while a story about grief, was incomplete. Part of the tale. Another part is the group of old friends, the ones who rallied round, kept in touch, invited me out, took me to football games, celebrated my birthday, bade me sing.

This is another grief story. Today I head to Marathon, Texas for a small music festival, the aptly named Marathon Songwriter’s Festival.

Sunday. Yesterday. August 4 was the fourth anniversary of my wife’s death. It passed without much notice. Only a close friend and a cousin offered condolences. And I think that’s as it should be.

High up in the middle of the big chinquapin oak is a dove’s nest. I discovered it one day quite by accident. I was standing by the tree with my hand on the trunk, thinking how thick it felt and remembering back to the days when we planted it.

It is odd in the first days of August to look out the kitchen window and see a lawn of intense green. A lawn that would make a suburban dad proud. A lawn that would make an HOA smile. A lawn that speaks of a surfeit of water. A lawn that speaks of rain.

Got up this morning, made the bed, and thought, this is an odd thing, making my bed when no one is looking.

I’m still thinking about space. Although yesterday it was about emptiness. About clearing away things to give yourself room to breathe, to focus on what’s important.

I got to thinking about space yesterday. Emptiness. The space between things. The void that gives you time to think, to pause, to reflect, to look.

There’s big medicine and there’s little medicine. Mostly, I’ve been writing about big medicine. Life threatening things, aneurysms, hearts. But that little medicine is still there. Last Wednesday my back spasmed when I bent over at the waist to pick up a bowl rather that stoop down.