Woke at 5am, sat zazen for 30 minutes. Same cushion, same silence. Steam rose from the jasmine tea. The wind smelled like dust and pine this morning.
Fed the animals. Noticed one of the goats favoring her front leg - deep crack in the hoof, swollen and warm. Infection setting in. I cleaned it out and gave her a dose of antibiotics. She didn’t fight me. Just stood there quiet, trusting. Animals know who’s trying to help.
Patched a low spot in the fence where the deer have been slipping through. Left the tools out - I’d be back before dusk.
Drove into town to get the new rack welded onto the truck. Heavy-gauge steel, built to take a beating. The kind of thing you install once and never again. The guy at the shop said, “You must haul some serious stuff.” I told him, “Sometimes.” That was enough.
While they worked, I walked a few blocks and stopped by the tobacconist. Picked up a handful of cigars for the boys at church, Cohiba Blues. Not for show - just a way of saying I see them, and I’m glad we’re walking the same road. The smell in that little shop always takes me back to younger days: desert monsoons, smell of the Colorado river, and warm slower nights.
Swung by the butcher too - grabbed thick pork chops and a sack of marrow bones for the dogs. They waited by the porch when I pulled up, tails swinging like hammers. I handed out the bones like communion.
Rain rolled in by the time I got home. Sat zazen again before dinner. No visions, no voices. Just the rhythm of drops on the roof and the ache in my shoulders.
Grilled the chops, lit a single taper, and ate alone. My bride’s still out of town. Dogs snored under the table, full and content.
Hung my coat. Looked out at the truck - rack gleaming in the porch light like it had always been there.
A day of steel, smoke, and silence.
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