Something got into our yard this morning and decimated the chicken flock. The black hen dead, the two Plymouth’s carried away, the Yellow Leghorn freaked out.
I’m done. Done with neglect. Done with rabid dogs. Done with unnecessary death.
I spoke with my friend Patrick yesterday morning. He called me the prophet of loss – all that which has occurred and that which is yet to come.
He’s right. I stood on the Sonoma plaza looking up at those California oaks and I realized he was absolutely right. It’s the story of my life and my writing voice and all I really care to think about.
All of that loss. And more to come.
Yet who are we without it?