In July, the big dipper sits low on the horizon. Settled like it’s about to take a delicious scoop of the Earth. Only in July, warm-after-monsoon nights, does it sit like this.  I look right to find Polaris and then follow it’s faint line to spy the little dipper if the moon is soft enough. Quiet enough. If the night is dark enough. I like to lay back and stare up so I see nothing but sky. The stars begin to pop. Staring at the sky like this makes one feel disoriented. Sometimes though I think it orientates me. It’s healing. A reminder when things are tough, when sadness visits, when the world feels too big. How small it is, we are, I am. And I let the big dipper scoop me up in it’s joy.


ghosts of the barn



The 4th of July in barn-land (meaning the small city where my barn resides) is always something quite intense. The most popular “holiday” by far for the area. The biggest tourist season. The little city gets very busy during that time.

It falls at the start of the monsoons. The sky is always on fire with electricity around that time. Riddled with lightning. The heat that had been building pressure finally lets loose and releases. Summer rain, cooling temperatures, magical evenings. The feeling somehow that something more should be happening.

The neighbors, no matter where you live, suddenly come alive with the sound of laughter. People over, visitors, family gatherings on the porch, barbecues. The rain finally touches down on the dry land and fire pits light up.

The normally quiet city, it stays up all night. The country bars enlivened with tourists and fun. Everyone reliving their youth. You…

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