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Sometimes a blog is just about good writing. For proof, visit Chris Clarke's Creek Running North.
In mornings I walk down the hill with Zeke, a slower walk each day. His legs are failing. I drink in the sight of him, his silly smile, his need to leap each curb despite his weakness. Steller’s jays taunt us from nearby oaks: I savor their ratcheted song. This morning seven vultures soared the thermal on our hill, tilting their wings only slightly in grand, wide arcs. We take the next block a bite at a time. At the park I let Zeke off leash, a violation the police and park staff tolerate in my old dog, and he follws me gamely to the creek. I have surveyed the creek each morning for some time, though Zeke does not always make it to the bank. It rises and falls with rain and tide, deep-throated murmur or trickly laugh, and the kingfisher flies upstream. This morning I watched it greedily. It was full and so, when I turned to walk toward Zeke again, was I.That's what you'll find there. Some lovely stuff. I'm listening to “Inner Meet Me” by The Beta Band from the album The Three E.P.'s on
