THE LAWSON’S PEAK BOOKS

All A Dream

Every country boy is entitled to a creek. If no creek’s handy, maybe a meandering branch will do for awhile. But it must have a few holes that he can’t see the bottom of. That’s an absolute requisite, and there’s no getting around it. (Havilah Babcock)

My, the winter, no matter how mild, has been much, much too long.

I am dreaming of spring, though I’ve found it four or five times already. Louisiana, where you can experience all four seasons in the same week. Sometimes the same day.

Lately I’ve felt snagged between the past and the future, stuck immovable in the present. I find myself daydreaming more about a world long dead than a future undiscovered. Can’t go back, yet mired along the path to tomorrow.

Out there, somewhere far inland, lie the open spaces that make my spirit soar; the dense, close places that give me comfort, and the endless, ceaseless flow of water.

Yet my thoughts keep swinging backwards; to an age of innocence, or at least, an era less mangled.

Events of late have left scars on a heart already wounded by the changes I’ve seen over the few decades of my life. I . . . → Read More: All A Dream

Come Together

Words fail.

How could they ever suffice?

Poets would falter; musicians would fall silent. There are no notes, no meter, no lyrics.

What this community has experienced in the last few weeks cannot be expressed, though we try. I, for one, make the attempt and feel like I’ve failed miserably.

It was a mile or two from home; the screaming sirens, the engines roaring as they flew by. Details emerged, horrific. Unthinkable.

How could it happen here?

So we grieve.

At some point, heal.

In the interim, come together in a way I have never seen before.

I knew the officer’s face well. No more than nods exchanged in greeting at the door of the Trading Post, or a wave from one vehicle to the other. I don’t get out much, I guess. Most of my time is spent in my personal space or over here in town. But when I saw his photo, I knew. I knew.

How? Why?

Questions with no answers. None that make sense, anyway. Perhaps none that can make any sense to anyone.

We sort through the detritus; intimate or distant, searching vainly for clues. Something to make ourselves feel better, make sense of . . . → Read More: Come Together