Celebration Saturday #18
Damned if my chess pieces don’t look like chocolate. The dog is captivated by the prospect of eating a pawn. We have with us the sacraments of celebration: Bottle of Moscato. Seward McCain on the radio. Our threadbare oriental rug beneath us and the snake-sway of a dying fire in the stove. There’s an ocean of snow between the Ranch and civilization this evening. Like injury and old critters, it’s an excuse to slow down and soften. Even the dog, whose lips grazed a knight, lets go of desire and curls up between us, snoring while Lil Mountain Ash whoops my butt at chess.