The limestone cliffs on Highway 165 near Table Rock Mountain tower above the road and above the lake which flows, ribbon-like, far below. Brief afternoon sun highlights the bluff, etching ancient karst rock in warm relief. Cathedral walls in nature are easy enough to overlook on a busy schedule — just another rock cliff, just another bunch of trees, just the lake below. Even here, in the miracle of space and air and stone and life, the mind reduces the experience to the munda

A lemon sky gathers, clouds a distant tangerine smudge where the sun is setting on the far western horizon, somewhere over Oklahoma it seems, and the ribbon road is again endless, east versus west, time over and again. The forest ridges tumble away on all sides, faceless, nameless to the 80-mph-travelers on I-44, forest ridges that were not long ago crimson and rust-red, before then, dusky green and thick in the summer heat, now, hazel and gray, umber and dead.   These passin

Oaks are known for strength, but it takes more than just strength to weather the storms of this old world.

The orange streetlamps lit a covey of maple trees, trees whose leaves were making weird shivery noises in the early nighttime darkness. The sound was almost that of the ocean surf in the new dark of yet another Saturday, another week, another deep fall night, another onrushing winter, another year cold and soon dead. I stood on the high cement parking deck, modern American convention hotel juxtaposed with another old neighborhood. The orange light cast weird shadows over tras

I climb into my truck at nightfall, trusty Basset joining on the console. Key in ignition, watchful reverse into the alley. Bright crescent moon in the Southwest peeks through poplar branches. Truck tires on gravel, then edge-of-town asphalt. Yellow street lamps light the way, one block, two blocks... At the edge of light, a figure darts across the road. I blink. Human form, running motion. Except — the figure was gray, ragged portions of the body missing. And it is sprinting

Historically, we cannot argue with the stout Christian faith of our Scots-Irish forebears who settled these hills, nor question their reasons for leaving the Old Country.

That September was a hot one. Beyond the soft industrial hum, chorus of cicadas also answers.

The rain beats down hard outside, surprisingly cold, especially after so long a hot, dry summer. The warnings on my phone turn ominous:...

Lithography, stone, typography, the printing press, Gutenberg — this was all new and strange and I strangely loved it.

Wild rabbits and earthen mounds seem to haunt the untapped back regions of my mind.

We can walk through the Farmers Market and just see tents and tables and merchandise, but our Market folks are special, as are all earnest and intent artisans.

The sunset streaks with orange and purple and the wind is blowing from the Southeast, ragged and fitful and soft to the touch. The wind...

But this was April and I was nearing the end of the second grade. Kindergarten, first grade, second grade, the end of each school year was marked by a school program...

The wind picked up and the far northeast sky — far off toward a place called Chicago — was a flat cyan, the blue the color of the past.

The hard workers show respect, not disparagement. Mockery is the easy way out.

"Your house is like going to Grandma's in the '90s," my friend is saying, and I'm not sure if I should be amused or insulted. I tend to...

The orange sun slips behind the western mountain ridges. Summer solstice ends, even as the evening news begins its frantic reporting of...

The caravel's sails billowed and orchestral music swelled. I was glued to the TV that early summer of 1992, watching a PBS documentary on...

The sun was hot that late afternoon and bits and pieces of the moment still float somewhere in my memory. We were parked out back behind...

The great garden spider, all bright yellow and stark black, was still and waiting on her weaving web there amid blooming iris and peonies...