My eyes aren't believing the beauty of splintered brushstrokes of lavender intermittently striped across soft apricots and diluted magentas as the sun sinks toward the horizon.
The side of my 1920s wooden bungalow buffets breezes from the Gulf just a few blocks away and, from my sitting porch, I can inhale the sea and seaweedy air, on this, the milder of many evenings in awhile, I hear my wood-framed structure squeeze out an occasional creak, and think about trees felled and hauled to top this piece of ground.
I think of what must be a long-dead carpenter whose pride sank nails perfectly into aligned joints, fashioned from new-sawn boards dried and awaiting sealer and paint.
The creaks of those trees now framing and siding and flooring my house for ninety-some years seem to mock my aching, arthritic joints, as I gaze at God's mural, my glorious sky show as if in an encore bow before succumbing to dark.
Reaching down from the arm of my oversized rocker, I stroke my bloodhound's head, knowing Grits' thirteen years have eroded his bones, too, slowed-up his gait.
The ole pooch and I don't have a plan for tomorrow but, for tonight, a little supper, a ball game on the radio, and a small but worn bed may get us into tomorrow if my prayers to see another sunset like tonight's are answered.