When we looked out through the live oaks, we saw wild things. Deer lounged in the shade--a harbinger of rain. A wild turkey hunted and pecked for grain, as assiduous as any computer typist. Swallowtail butterflies floated like cotton in the wind.
Sometimes people write things to the effect that they left a place, and they missed its memory. But I find that my life is full of memories that never leave me, that become part of the fabric of who I am, and that color everything I see.