The dog licks the top of her paws, and sighs in a snort, resting her head, uninterested in the red ball beyond the glass, having accepted yesterday the mystery of its roundness.
It’s Sunday in Santa Meja, and hardened tortillas sit on the microwave next to two corks freed from the translucent green bottles guarding the top of the trash can.
Round, gray clouds swim through at a visible clip carrying spirited wind shaking out ponderosa pine and chilling chipmunks. It’s November on the northern desert.
Sleep remains near as eyelids hang over a sweat-stained white t-shirt. A half-spilled coffee cup of well water is swallowed to save a parched throat. Passing through the red-screen door to the deck, the clouds are seen running to kiss a mesa near the forge to the south.
He stretches, rubs his mustache and vows to find an old croissant in the fridge. It’s Sunday and the merchant man needs a shower before Mass.