Yesterday evening as Kazon lay on the bed blanketed by the warm light of sunset, I watched him bathe for a short time before he curled up for a nap, and I realized then that today marks the end of his two-week regimen of medication.  His last steroids and antibiotics will be taken today, and I hope this defines his last struggle with the upset stomach they cause.

Our next course of action stems entirely from the results of more tests, more blood taken to see if his immune system has calmed down enough for him to be safe.  There’s also the question of his needed dental surgery, which of course can’t be addressed if we’re unable to reign in his immune system.

His weight stabilized after the first week, but it never recovered to its previous level and he now maintains a lightness that frightens me each time I pick him up.

Only time will tell where we go from here.

I’ve been asked why I subject myself to this variety of high-maintenance animals, many of whom have chronic health conditions.  That heralds entirely from rescuing unwanted and abandoned animals instead of seeking out kitten-mill produce and designer breeds.

Navel-gazing notwithstanding, saving a life to me is more important than effortless companionship by way of taking the safe route.

I would rather have a few short years of profound love with a sickly animal than many long years with a healthy one that I took in trade for knowing the loneliness and pain I left others to endure.

Had I not rescued Kazon when he was so young and so sick and so feeble, would anyone else have come along and provided him a good home with plenty of care and affection, provided him with safety and family without worrying for the cost his troubled childhood would bring later?

Perhaps.  Perhaps not.

Only my compassion drives me in these matters.

And when I am showered with such unbridled adoration and cared for with such heartfelt desire…  Well, to me that’s repayment well above and beyond whatever tribulations and trials we may face together.

White Rock Lake in Dallas.  That’s where I live, right on the edge of this wildlife refuge, right on the edge of this oasis in the middle of urban hell.

It’s full of resident and migratory birds, such as ducks, herons and egrets, hummingbirds, woodpeckers, finches, sparrows, swallows, flycatchers, blackbirds, martins, and many, many more; so many turtles, snakes and fish that you scarcely comprehend their numbers even though you see them all over the place; all sorts of diurnal and nocturnal mammals, like coyotes, foxes, raccoons, armadillos, minks, skunks and opossums; an unimaginable variety of insects and arthropods that outnumber us in a few short steps to the tune of hundreds to one, and when measured in our field of vision, they outnumber us millions to one; fields of wildflowers and grasses, dense woodlands thriving with innumerable kinds of trees, and waterways, marshes and shallows overflowing with aquatic plants and freshwater neighbors; and the list goes on.

This lake provides sanctuary to creatures great and small, and to flora so diverse that it boggles the mind.

All of this depends on the lake, on its delicate ecosystem made up of various types of environments, from inlets and confluences, to marshes and creeks, to shallow bays just right for wading, and to the depths of the lake itself.

But the city of Dallas has decided to annihilate all of this.

First comes an atrocious plan pushed through by a lighting company to illuminate the entire shoreline at night as a “proactive measure” to prevent crime after dark.

Hardly.

Almost all crime at the lake occurs during the day.  That’s statistically proven and indisputable.

What has happened is that a slick salesman for this devilish lighting company shafted the public by sneaking through a plan at taxpayer expense to put lights up all over the lake, to essentially destroy the nighttime environment by taking a lack of light pollution and turning it into one of the worst sources of light pollution one can imagine.

Doing so will draw crime into the park at night.  I mean, now that criminals can see and people will be lulled into a false sense of security by all the light, it will become a haven for robbers and rapists searching for easy prey—prey that’s easy to see and easy to assault, I mean.

And what happens to all the wildlife that relies on the dark for sustenance, for sleep, for safety?

It will be forced away from the lake and into surrounding neighborhoods.  People should start bringing their children, dogs and cats inside right now, because roving bands of coyotes and raccoons can bring death and destruction to anything that gets in their way.

But not wanting to stop the destruction at installing unnecessary, overly-expensive lights that will degrade the nighttime scenery and destroy the ecosystem, Dallas also came up with a plan to fix the spillway that will leave carnage and emptiness in its wake.

For two years they plan to lower the lake level by almost three feet (a meter) so constructions workers don’t get their feet wet while repairing the damaged retaining walls at the spillway.  They also intend to fell a vast swath of trees around the spillway.

These two acts will put the final nail in the lake’s coffin.  Oh, and all of this is being done with no environmental impact studies to quantify how the lake and its inhabitants will respond to these grotesqueries.

Abominations that reek of mishandling stewardship of White Rock Lake and its unique ecology, Dallas has foregone all sanity and humanity in the name of ignorance and avarice.

Sunset Bay will be left a dry, parched flatland where wading birds, ducks, geese and all manner of wildlife currently flourish.

The tributaries that feed the lake will be drained too low to sustain the thriving life that now fills them.

The diverse rookery surrounding the spillway will be emptied of its nests as trees are destroyed and humans bring heavy machinery and disruption right through the heart of new life that lives there.

Winter migrants, some of whom are already starting to arrive, will suddenly find the lake unable to support them until next spring—if it can even get them through the first month of winter.

The lack of food will cause year-round residents to flee, and that includes the hawks, egrets, herons, coyotes, foxes, snakes, turtles, ducks, geese, and all manner of beasts.

Essentially, both of these projects will make the lake uninhabitable to wildlife and uninviting to people.  This spectacular balance between nature and city will be destroyed, and what will be left will be a disgusting example of human greed and obliteration of that which stands in the way: nature.

Sans environmental impact studies, sans listening to residents of the lake and surrounding areas, sans forethought and care, sans comprehension of the beauty they are about to destroy, the city of Dallas should be ashamed of itself for even considering these plans, let alone allowing them to move forward.

And let me add to the list of shame the lighting company that kept residents and neighbors in the dark while pushing their illuminating hell on the city.  Hossley Lighting should be boycotted, derided, insulted, ignored, and put out of business.  They actually got the lighting plan put into motion without notice, so the first inkling we had of this horrific idea was the sudden appearance of lights along the west shore of the lake.  Mind you, the city won’t even repair the existing lights at piers and in parking lots, but by golly they’ll add more lights at an unbelievably high cost without any electrical infrastructure in place to support them.  And all at Hossley’s behest.  I wonder who’s getting paid to sell off our park to this reprehensible company…

Let us also put blame on the White Rock Lake Foundation and members of this injurious organization such as board member Susan Falvo.  She proffers her bought-and-paid-for vocal diarrhea as though it matters, as though anyone wants to hear the political rambles of someone who explains away this violation of trust and obliteration of our beautiful lake with phrases such as “proactive on security” and “before there is a problem.”  She herself said, “The lake is very safe.”  Why then does she think demolishing its grandeur and beauty will keep it that way?  The answer is simple: She’s a waste of skin and a bag of hot air with her pockets lined by someone who stands to make money from the deal.

Counting birds alone, more than 217 species will be impacted by these miscarriages of lake management, and that doesn’t include the innumerable and vast legion of other life that lives here alongside we the people.  What these two projects portend for the lake is a complete destruction of all that is, a violation of our shared trust of and habitation alongside this urban wildlife preserve.

Standing upon this precipice, this edifice of what is as it slowly gives way to what will be, I feel all of my photographs from this lake have become a memorial to canonize the once stunning White Rock Lake as it falls from grace and becomes the commercial example of how money is the root of all evil, the driving force behind man’s wanton destruction of nature in an attempt to make it better.

I’m ashamed of my city, disappointed with Dallas and its lack of oversight for the wonders that abound within its borders, and I’m horrified by the White Rock Lake Foundation, Recon Inc. and Hossley Lighting.  They deserve nothing less than our most profound contempt.  I can only hope they eventually reap the devilish rewards deserved for these violations of the lake.

The morning brought with it a sense of dread, a feeling of inescapable doom cloaked in pangs of agony.  And it went downhill from there.

Some ghoulish specter visited me during the night and deposited a sour stomach where my docile tummy had been the day before.

Stress, I think, or at least nerves and stress and fatigue exacerbating what should have been a minor upset stomach.  Though I do feel I’m getting a good ab workout…

Rushing slowly from minute to minute as the day zooms effortlessly by me in a race to bring the weekend to my doorstep, a weekend for being on call and lacking any rest or ability to relax looms just beyond the horizon of night, just over that midnight hill up ahead.

How I deplore being sick, and only slightly less than I deplore my job.  Pulling me under until I can no longer breathe, this employment embodies the scourge of plagues and the death of hope.

But I dare not dwell on it, not today at least.  If I’m to feel better, I must be calm and tranquil.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] Seedbox (Ludwigia alternifolia)

[2] Female muscovy duck (Cairina moschata)

[3] Male regal jumping spider (Phidippus regius)

[4] Dark-form female eastern tiger swallowtail (Papilio glaucus)

[5] Abandoned spiderweb from unidentified orb weaver

[6] Male northern cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis)

[7] Red-eared slider (Trachemys scripta elegans)

[8] Fallen leaf reduced to the lace outline of its veins

Nothing humbles us quite as powerfully as those moments wherein the vastness of the universe unfolds as a reminder of how small we are in relation to the cosmos.

We scarcely comprehend the distance between our sun and the nearest star, let alone the unimaginable spaces that separate whole galaxies from one another.

And when our minds grapple with the incomprehensible enormity of a universe that holds countless galaxies in its grasp…  Well, is it any wonder so many refuse to even try?

During brief jaunts at White Rock Lake this past weekend I found myself confronted with a different sense of scale, one comparable to our own infinitesimally insignificant size when rested beside the whole of that which contains our planet, our star, our solar system and our galaxy—along with many billions of similar planets and stars and galaxies.

The ground wet with dew and the last tears of a thin veil of fog that still lingered in the air, I stepped carefully as I traversed fields of clover and grass that sparkled in the morning sun.  Always mindful of the life filling the shadows beneath each blade, of the marvels scampering about a veritable rain forest that I might consider nothing more than ground cover, I measured each step carefully, each footfall preceded with a sweeping of my shoe before me as warning to those in my path.

Those watching me no doubt believed me mad, what with the slow, cumbersome movement that carried me forward like a gnat through cold molasses.  They surely felt I would never make it out of the park before starvation and stagnation claimed me for their own.

Yet I can survive hours in this manner, hours of life carefully paid to the tills of observation and care.  Only in this way am I capable of seeing that worth seeing, experiencing the fullness of life that fills every moment whilst going unnoticed by almost all humans.

Katydids and grasshoppers leaping from leaf to leaf…  Crickets singing until I came too close for comfort…  Mockingbirds winging their way on air washed white with moisture fighting the rising sun for one more moment…  Spiders jumping and chasing and running…  Dragonflies and damselflies filling every void with the hunt and perch and hunt and perch…  Ducks and geese and herons and pelicans rushing from bath to swim to meal to nap…  Armadillos racing off to bed while snakes awoke to a new day…

So much life can overwhelm the senses, make one feel too unable to see that which matters.  It is precisely at that moment when the importance of scale presents itself.

No larger than my own thumbnail, this juvenile toad leapt before my lumbering form, each landing a dive beneath some smidgen of grass or cluster of clover; nevertheless, its first jump caught my attention and drew me in for a closer look.

Several minutes it took for me to capture it, and several times it escaped my gentle grasp before I lifted it more than a heartbeat above the ground.  I smiled in that careful frustration that defines such experiences, that captures the essence of wanting a picture of that which does not share the interest.

Even as I held my subject with the utmost care, I witnessed a myriad of its brothers and sisters making their escapes while my attention focused elsewhere.  The ground writhed amidst the carryings on of an amphibian swarm defined by children.  I gasped at the profound presence of so many toads and frogs, not one of them larger than the one I held in my hand…and many of them much smaller.

Then my mind wandered to the previous day, to an experience not too dissimilar from the magic I felt then, to an even smaller creature with whom I shared the briefest of experiences.

I watched the ground carefully in an effort to avoid needlessly ending a life.  My wet shoes scuffled along like heavy weights tethered to weak legs.  Too many innocents fled my approach for me to be careless.

Then a spot of movement caught my eye, a glimmer of spirit racing along at minuscule speeds beneath my lumbering approach.  I knelt down for a closer look.

How long it took me to capture the child I cannot say.  So small that I feared even my gentlest touch might crush it, I worked diligently to coax it into my palm with tender movements made too large and cumbersome by the disparity of scale that defined our existences.

Only one photo could be taken, one moment captured in digital form.  Too much chasing and too much handling, I feared, would lead to some cataclysmic disaster wherein I would take a life through no intent save that of snapping a picture.  Such would be unforgivable.

And again my mind wandered, soared from thought to though, from memory to memory…

A sense of scale began to take shape, one defined by an enormity made of my own smallness and characterized by the tiniest of life so placidly held in my grasp.  Even as I began to weep from the mystic power revealed to me, I turned away so as not to frighten the creature with the disastrous onslaught of something as small as a tear.

We as individuals feel so small in the face of the universe.  We feel so threatened, so challenged by a vastness that questions our long-held sense of superiority, of being the center of the cosmos.

In those moments when I held two lives indescribably small within the confines of my enormous hand, that sense of scale came into focus, made itself manifest in a truth too many ignore and too many revile.

We are small because we think we are small.  We are giants because we think we are giants.  The truth lies somewhere in between, somewhere along a path of enlightenment that few travel and many renounce.

True strength rests in the peace of gentleness, and real tenderness demands a strength of spirit all but a few lack.

I hope this sense of scale never escapes me, never leaves me questioning, leaves me wondering that, even if I can do a thing, does that mean I must do that thing?  Just because I can inflict my superiority upon others in the form of death, does it necessarily follow that I should?

A sense of scale.  A sense of humanity.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

Both are of a toad, probably Bufo valliceps or Bufo nebulifer.  Neither example was old enough to tell for certain (and both species are so similar that even adults are hard to tell apart).  As they grow, as they age, both—assuming they survive—will show the traits more describable by their respective species.

I at first thought I might crop these images to focus more intently on the toads.  Further review while writing this post made clear such an approach not only felt hollow, but it would diminish the fierceness of what I experienced.  The measure relative to my hand pronounces what matters; emphasis on secondary considerations employs a deception unworthy of the impact.

With the U.S. government looking to spend $700 billion to save companies that acted stupidly, let me present some recommendations from “we the people” who ultimately will foot the bill.  Oh, and this should include all companies already saved from their own mismanagement…

1. We the taxpayers should gain ownership in any company saved to the tune of whatever investment it takes to salvage said entities from the ignorance that put them in jeopardy.  That means the federal government should gain stock in the amount of all moneys spent to purchase the bad investments these companies made; that ownership should then be passed on to the citizens who find themselves carrying this debt.
2. All executives (any CxO) in companies saved at the taxpayers’ expense should have their salaries halted until the public debt is paid.  I mean all executives should receive absolutely no compensation until the little people are paid back the totality of funds necessary to keep their organizations from going under.  Call it a learning experience for those bigwigs who expect us average folk to lose our tax investments on their behalf.
3. Mortgages acquired by the government should fall under different foreclosure rules than those still owned by the financial companies involved.  And any organization which sells mortgage-backed investments to the government should lose any and all claims to those loans.
4. The American people who pay for this bailout should be the first and only people in line for recompense once the market stabilizes and funds become available to the government.  No company or executive should have any claim whatsoever to any refunds or disbursements made available by the government as this charity is paid off.
5. Vigorous and demanding oversight should be included for the entire financial services sector.  Call it “square-headlights-required regulation” if you will, but it goes without saying that Wall Street acts with contemptuous disregard for Main Street, and then it pretends Main Street owes it something when the cards are on the table.  So be it, but let that include Main Street having final say in what Wall Street does.
6. All boards involved should be summarily terminated and replaced by a majority-controlled public board, which consists of those paying this unbelievably enormous bill.  Controlling interests in all companies involved failed to act early or late, yet now they look for a handout from the tax-payinig public.  To me that means they don’t deserve the stewardship with which they were charged.
7. The entire program should last no more than twelve months.  It should also have a cap placed on all investments made prior to the enactment of the bill and including nothing thereafter.  This would stop the selfish ignorance that got us into this mess by ensuring no one tries to slip in a little illegal profit moving forward.

Despite his worsening asthma, Loki remains a devilishly spry cat for his age.  Both he and Grendel will be twelve years old in February 2009.  That’s the human equivalent of being 65 years old.

I see age beginning to slow down The Great Satan, however, and I see asthma taking its toll as well.  His plotting, scheming, conniving ways have been subdued of late, less vile than they were some years ago.  He still conspires to perpetrate evil at every opportunity, mind you, but his body no longer can support the near constant malevolence he once visited upon the world.

Kazon remains on a powerful regimen of antibiotics and steroids in an attempt to subdue his out-of-control immune system that seems intent on harming his own body.  As ill as he was when I rescued him in the first few months of his life, it now appears that the terrible childhood he suffered has finally come back to haunt him.

Now a full ten years old in human terms, his own species would equate that age with being in his mid to late fifties.  I see how growing older brings old ghosts out of the shadows and into focus.  Yet he remains my Baby Boy, my Puppy, the one member of The Kids who I know could not survive without me.  His emotional attachment to me is of such profound energy that it becomes palpable each and every day.

My high-maintenance cat, Grendel has suffered throughout his life with one ailment after another.  From bone spurs in his hips to acute asthma to inflammatory bowel disorder (an immune system dysfunction) to kidney and bladder stones, Sponge always has made it through a difficult life with the grandest composure and perseverance.  He remains to this day a proud, capable, fearless companion.

Yet as I always discuss with the vets, time proves over and over again that the next shoe will eventually fall, and we saw that next problem begin just a few months ago.  With alarming weight loss and the onset of tremors, a lifetime of steroid use appears to have finally caught up with him.  All examinations and tests indicate his shaking stems from neurological damage; one vet likened it to the appearance of Alzheimer’s disease.  His age will not help this latest affliction, nor will his waning strength allow him to adjust as easily.  Even today I saw him struggle to leap from the cat castle to the desk where he might enjoy a refreshing bit of ice water from my glass.  The hesitation he now shows breaks my heart.

More than twelve human years old, placing him near 70 feline years old, Vazra recovered from near death and shows a youthful exuberance for life that dwarfs the survival instinct of many humans.  His poor dental health two years ago spelled certain doom for him, what with it keeping him from eating and drinking and grooming, yet removing seven teeth gave him a new lease on life.  He took his rescue in stride, quickly making himself at home with The Kids as a member of the family, and he demonstrates an unequaled ability to disregard hardship in favor of getting through just one more day.

As the oldest member of the family, I look at him now compared to when I rescued him and think about what might have happened had I not intervened.  More importantly, I wonder about his health as he grows older.  But those concerns aside, this Persian offers unconditional love and gratitude at every opportunity, and his newfound health and vitality bring joy to my heart every time I look at him and remember what might have been.

My Lion.  Only six human years/40 feline years old, Larenti lives in a perpetual state of discovery, fear and timidity.  He is the largest cat in the house, yet he also is the most afraid.  Slowly he has shown increasing comfort; nevertheless, the unending reservoir from which he draws fright at even the smallest surprise continually worries me.  Some horrific tragedy befell this poor soul before I rescued him.  I only hope he remains on this path to overcoming that anxiety.

Larenti’s young age and juvenile spirit lend themselves to a good deal of energy and mischief.  I laugh heartily when I see him play, when I see him stir up trouble by stalking someone in one of the litter boxes, or when I recognize his purring request for attention each night as he leaps atop the bed to join us for a spot of sleep.  I trust he has many years left to travel, many days of quality and joy and comfort.

al-Zill is a child.  Scarcely more than two years old, his feline age of 24 means he remains immature, rambunctious, meddlesome.  I affectionately chastise him continuously for getting into trouble, whether it be destroying an entire package of toilet paper under the bathroom counter or endlessly trying to engage one of the other children in rough horseplay.  Yet such things are to be expected from someone so young, especially someone with neurological damage as severe as his.

There are times when I forget about al-Zill’s mental incapacity; he leaps and runs and plays with rugged determination.  Then there are times when that now invisible head wound becomes apparent: he still shows instability when I pick him up and set him down, his body convulses from time to time when he tries to run or leap or scratch a difficult-to-reach spot, and a simple shake of his head can throw him to the ground as though struck by some invisible force.  However, he’s young enough to adapt, something he’s doing quite well already, and a full life stretches out before him so long as he remains in a safe place that can accommodate his special needs.

Like her brother Kazon, Kako has reached her mid to late fifties in terms of feline years, although her bad health early in life does not seem to have affected her quite so severely.  Sure, she has a perpetual problem with her ears due to the mite infestation she had way back then, but medication every month or two clears that up and leaves her ready to tackle the world.  And tackle the world she does.

Yet being a bitch is not all this Lady has to hold on to; she is, after all, Daddy’s Girl, and she claims that which only she can claim: being the sole female in the house.  When I’m not home, she spends a great deal of time with Grendel, her man, but she’s all mine if I’m available.  I see age taking from her little by little the energy she once had.  This has in no way stopped her from ruling the roost.  She proffers horrific cries when someone invades her personal space even if they don’t come within arm’s length of her; she defends her gentlemen (Grendel and I) with a fierceness unrivaled by great white sharks on the hunt; and she embodies the universal truth of no home needing more than one female cat, no kingdom requiring more than One Queen to Rule Them All.  I think it’s her female superiority that keeps her from showing her age more than she does.  I wonder how long she can keep up that dichotomy…

— — — — — — — — — —

Henry lived almost 22 human years—104 feline years—before his body stopped living up to his spirit’s expectations.  Only in the last months of his life did age catch up with the immortal soul of a god that dwelled within his flesh.

Very much unlike the current members of The Kids, I did not bathe Henry in perpetual health care for every little infirmity, every little hiccup in the natural order of things.  Instead, I focused on his happiness, watched him closely and did what I thought best for each problem as it cropped up, and in the end I found myself justified in the approach that favored quality over quantity without delving endlessly into unneeded, unnecessary, unjustified meddling by veterinary professionals.

Looking back on life at this moment, I question my present methodology with regards to my children…

Methinks the time has come for a serious examination of care, an unquestioned scrutiny of how I deal with The Kids and their well-being.  Although I would dare not second-guess myself with regards to critical action in a time of need, I’m left wondering if my efforts, like so much human health-care that lends itself to more suffering and hardship, have made life more difficult for these cats who look to me for wisdom in cases where they cannot offer as much.

I’m holding in my hot little hands the final edition of a nature field guide which includes a licensed copy of one of my photographs.

The time is almost here for me to reveal the now coming-very-soon book in which you will find one of my images published.

I hope it’s the first of many.  Even if it’s not, though, this has been a marvelous experience.

Stay tuned!  As soon as the field guide is available for purchase, I will share the details here.

In beautiful places we cannot see the world holds its breath with us at the majesty of things purple.

Deep and dark, bright and light, even shadows cannot contain such splendor, and the sun itself bows in respect.

Shame on those who fail to stop and take notice.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] Moss verbena (Verbena tenuisecta)

[2] Obedient plant (a.k.a. false dragonhead; Physostegia virginiana)

[3] Pin clover (a.k.a. redstem filaree or common stork’s-bill; Erodium cicutarium)

[4] Henbit (Lamium amplexicaule)

[5] Ornamental kale (a.k.a. red winter, cottager, flowering cabbage, collard or cole; Brassica oleracea var. acephala); while technically neither a flower nor the product of nature’s own designs (it’s the result of human intervention), the color is astounding, especially with the dead leaf for contrast

Like the emperor’s robes tinted with hues so magical as to be unreal, nature loves to swaddle itself with rapturous shades of purple.

Long has it been the color of royalty and a sign of passion, symbolic of sensuality, mystery and wisdom.  Earth wears it well.

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] Sensitive brier (a.k.a catclaw brier, sensitive vine littleleaf mimosa, native mimosa; Mimosa nuttallii, or sometimes Mimosa microphylla)

[2] Showy evening primrose (Oenothera speciosa)

[3] Desert false indigo (a.k.a. false indigo, indigobush or lead plant; Amorpha fruticosa)

As a strong category 2 hurricane, one just shy of the category 3/major hurricane threshold, Ike intrigues me not because of its intensity—yes, that’s something to be concerned about—but because of its size.

The storm didn’t intensify as quickly or as much as originally expected.  The simple answer to why that didn’t happen is this: Ike was burning all of its fuel to maintain its enormous size.  It’s as large as the state of Texas.

DFW began seeing Ike’s presence a full 24 hours before the storm made landfall.

The furthest reaches of its cloud umbrella began flowing over us yesterday evening, wispy cirrus curling by overhead in lazy arcs that slowly grew into voluminous banks of powerful cumulus clouds begging for the energy to be more than they were.

That energy was still being driven from the Gulf of Mexico, yet all the way across the state it arrived like a slow-motion fall, a cataclysm being watched as it takes shape.

When I arose this morning, the full outer bands of the cloud umbrella had already reached us and enveloped North Texas, dark and forbidding creatures flitting by at an increasing rate as the storm driving them finally came ashore and began its journey in our direction.

The Tropical Storm Wind Warning has been extended well north of us now.  Rain estimates have been increased.  Tornado potential has spread.

And yet I stand on my patio now and feel the wind and see the shadowy figures cloaking the morning sky, and I wonder how something so far away can be so near, so present in both time and place.

Then I look at the radar, at the satellite images, and I remember Ike’s reach, Ike’s size, Ike’s power.

Today will be interesting to say the least.