ROWLETT, TX (July 27, 2026) When I wake there is a choice. There is no point defining the other choice, as I will always choose to rouse myself to go out into the morning, before the neighborhood comes alive.
There is a quintessential squeak on the back door, though it is not the screen door of old southern stories, but a glass storm door. The interior door remains open, morning till dark. The glass bringing in more of the green yard and the stone walled circle filled with growing bouquets of perennials and low roses; tucked in with composted soil and a thick layer of mulch, protection from waves of summer heat.
Stepping off the patio I scan the grass in front of me. I’d rather not closely encounter the large black snake again, preferring he see me first and slither off towards the front yard. He is not in my sights this morning. Picking my way around the stones to be laid next week, I cross the damp area where grass declines to grow; thus, the stones to be laid next week. I follow the low stone border around, stopping to gaze across the front of the garden.
Setting my cappuccino on the arm of the Adironack, I sink into the deep comfort. The grass in front of the chair is flattened from my feet – placed in the same spot as yesterday and the day before.
Dark is fading while the light creeps in, where does one begin and the other end? And where does the dark go for the long, hot day, until it sinks back over me when I linger on the patio at day’s end, through the twilight into eventide? The same as yesterday and the day before.
Birds are launching their waking sounds. Little by little come the cheeps, chips, one strong clear whistle, peer peer peer, the songs are the same as yesterday, and the day before.
Darkness gone, the blue in the sky is not crisp today, but blurred with clouds, softly painted with the lightest of hand, smoky gray haze defining each pouf. All filled in with chalks by the artist who paints the scene today, just as yesterday, and the day before.
And above me, the canopy of limbs curving all to one side, reaching for the light and spreading across, creating a rail system to convey the squirrels. A Pecan tree larger around than the circle of my arms, and I should remember to measure it one of these days.
Measurements are a detail that go by me, while others seem able to estimate the distance from back fence to iron gate. How many yards away the house across the street is from mine. How much distance further then, to the nature trail; if you cut through a space between the houses, rather than beginning a couple of miles west; and walking from the parking area as most must do.
What I can tell you, is about the satisfying crunch of walking on decomposed granite, and a curving trail that runs along the creek, and the dim light from the full canopy of trees overhead that curve side to side, creating tunnels of green. The birdsong louder there than here, Woodpeckers tap in multiples, and the frogs emote at the creek and beyond, at the edge of the larger water. Tall water grasses conceal them and other creatures from this suburban path which makes us believe we are out in the wilds. The houses on my left betray the illusion.
Thorny vines drop down from the trees there, giving illusion of a deep wood, and once, it surely was. Now the woods are choked in by well sized homes with cut green lawns, and crews who arrive with trailers loaded with mowers and whackers, they blow the shorn bits away in ear wrenching cyclones. Somewhere in these surrounds, someone’s lawn is getting the weekly trim, any time of the day. Even while I rue the way suburbia encroaches on nature, I feel fortunate. I can be in that dark, quiet nature surround in moments, from my doorway.
Now I recall, measuring the distance for the stone walk, to run between the patio and the border of the round garden, the length from a stone pad that was laid in the spring, to the curved end of the patio. My eyeball was not sufficient and being too lazy to go inside for the measuring tape, I stepped carefully along, heel to toe to heel, providing an estimate of twenty feet to my project man. He will dig three inches down, spread crunchy granite, lay stones, and sweep pea gravel across; creating a path for me, under my own green canopy on Monday.
Later, I will pull the measuring tape from the kitchen drawer and congratulate myself. Twenty feet spot on.
In this still morning air – thick as you might know, we’ve seen the end of a few mild days, reaching instead to the highest of double digits. We creep through July with a slight dread of August, in the south.
For now, on this morn, my senses come alive and my mind lingers here. The glory is here, the same as yesterday and the day before.
Sally lives in Rowlett, Texas and is married to her long-time flame, Judge Chris Kilgore. Sally’s work is published in The Dallas Morning News, Blue Ribbon News, Persimmon Tree, and Orchards Poetry. Sally writes a blog on her website, SallyAKilgore.com. Contact her by email via her website.
Kukka by Sally Kilgore: Day Before Yesterday added by Editor on
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