Before my sixth sense died at the tree of knowledge, I was as carefree as any child, any bird, any flower of the field. I was the new creation of every morning. All children are.
Only four, I tasted fingers inked with mulberry blood and powdered with Texas dust. I rested in the shadow of squat trees, gnarled as old men’s fingers, and cut grass with the swish of a mesquite switch I’d plucked from my canopy. These were my friends: the roadrunner; the scissor-tailed flycatcher; the grayed woman at the end of the road with the black cat and a room full of fish tanks. They were lake fish, I think, monochrome and meaty. Everything in her house was steel-blue, best as I recall…
Thanks for stopping in! If you enjoy reading here, sign up to receive my bi-monthly Tiny Letter. If you sign up, you’ll receive my free eBook, Coming Clean|Austin Outtakes. And, if you enjoy this website or my Tiny Letter, consider signing up as a monthly content supporter.Want to receive my updates in your inbox? Click here. Also, follow along on Twitter and Facebook.