A Different Kind of Morning

It’s a Wednesday morning in August and the smallest, quirkiest, most lovable, most annoying, and by far the furriest member of our family is gone. I’d cried as I held him in my arms at the veterinary clinic the day before. Wrapped in a warm, soft blanket, he was pain-free and at peace. I’d been through this three times before with our other adopted cats, some might wonder why. They give us so much during our time together that I’m compelled to be there, fully present at the end. I want them to know that they are loved, and that we’ll miss them–even if it does leave me in bits.

Hilly Tuscan landscape with a vineyard in the foreground, trees, and rolling hills under a clear sky with the sun rising over the horizon.

Tuscan Mornings

A chorus of birdsong plays as I sit in the weak sunshine of post-Tuscan dawn, its golden light illuminating a slender band of ethereal cloud, hovering in the valley below.

Cuckoos, pigeons, finches and others too numerous or unusual to even fathom, sound off in a soothing, symphonic display of avian excellence. A bark breaks through this gentle arrangement, a fox wrapping up their nocturnal wanderings perhaps, and tossing out one last heckle before returning to the den.

Two mixed martial artists competing inside an octagon cage. The fighter on the left is kicking the opponent in the midsection, who is covering his face with his hands. The fighters are shirtless, wearing gloves, and shorts. They are bruised and tired

Payouts and Knockouts

The Allure and the Angst of Mixed Martial Arts

Robert slumps against the cage wall of the octagon, the blood streaming from his nose spatters onto the pristine, off-white floor emblazoned with the FCFF logo across the center. His left leg stretches out to one side, dead and useless. It buckled under him after one too many leg kicks from his opponent Bryce, each one landing with the slightly nauseating smacking sound you might get beating an as-yet uncooked thanksgiving turkey with a rolling pin.

A raven, standing on a snowy peak.

The Raven

The raven materialized out of nothing. The denim blue skies, empty save for a few wispy clouds produced this shadowy, feathered apparition as suddenly as a magician pulls a rabbit from his hat. He glided in on a gust of chilly wind, landing noiselessly on the snow-encrusted summit of our now shared mountaintop. Just a few yards apart, we regarded each other I think with mutual curiosity. He was quite beautiful. Wrapped in an unblemished uniform of the darkest black, it shone occasionally when reflecting the light of the sun.