Late summer days linger in hazy dreams before the door of autumn. In Dripping Springs town, a deep-rooted, forgotten rose bush scrapes its thorns on the peeled, white clapboard home, abandoned in someone’s childhood summer long ago. The rotten bird house still clings crooked to a post where a bird sits slanted, gazing upon the… Continue reading Late Summer Memories at Dripping Springs
Tag: writing
A Town at Night has its Own Secrets
“A town at night has its own secrets,” An old woman whispered this into my ear when I was a child. I recall the late afternoon she came shuffling down the lane by our house in October, while my Daddy was chopping wood for the coming winter. Dust just swirling up behind her like she was… Continue reading A Town at Night has its Own Secrets
