Half the time, these doves fly wherever they want. The other half, they fly away from danger.

It’s warm today. Too warm for worries.

I sort everything for the move. A box for hate. A box for love. A box for confusion. A box for pain. In the end, everything’s in one box: the box of love. It’s overflowing.

If we can see ourselves in literature, we can see ourselves in the world.

You feel almost human, Tucson, just like your stately Saguaro. Or maybe I feel almost land, almost air, almost bird, almost snake, almost you, Tucson.

Sometimes, you’ve just got to superglue your cracked and bloodied feet and keep walking.

Sometimes all it takes is a neighbor reaching out with an armful of peaches to save us from disaster.

My neighbor appears to be pushing a stroller full of snacks down the trail. No child. No dog. Just snacks. Brilliant.

May winds blow birds your way.

It’s the time of year in which I worry ceaselessly about baby birds.

My dog is in the kitchen staring at the air fryer.

Ravens overhead and a pile of entrails on my back patio.

Catastrophic thinking: The tip of an agave spine is lodged in my finger. I’m obviously going to have to cut my whole hand off.

Traffic was at a standstill on the highway through Toquerville this morning. Two sheriffs and an animal shelter officer were trying to capture a pig who was on the loose.