When I looked out my windows at sunrise the other day, I saw red. It was the dark red of anger, spent blood, and demon eyes.

Wonderful then this new year began with some snow. Not much, but enough. Enough to remind me to take heart. That no matter how dark and dismal things get, fresh starts are regularly in sight.

My Christmas tree is listing like a drunken sailor. I wonder why. Perhaps because I got it lit on cheap vodka.

Yet, for all that friendly familiarity and feelings of unbreakable attachment, there are moments when, with no warning whatsoever, these woods take on an eerie, surreal quality.

It’s fall. Ghosts are rising up. Their hauntings inspirit and enliven me. Each morning begins with a danse macabre (dance of death).

Then I will make my wish. That all my days be days with dogs, and that I, along with all people follow the lead of dogs and live up to our humanity.

Shame on me if I ever again take for granted the wonderful sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste of rain.

Backyard Reports are spreading like wildfire here. Started a few years ago by a Quaker (aka Friend) in the Pennsylvania highlands of Appalachia.

To this day, I can still hear the echoes of those immigrant blessings, and when I am feeling badly, they console and reassure me.