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Like the Snap of a Cucumber
Prelude
Before my dog, Buddy, went to a safer place, he and I walked each afternoon on a wide hill near our home. One day we walked after a rain, when the air, earth, and sky were fresh and pungent. The rays of the setting sun outlined the clouds and pierced them, like beams from a higher realm.
I started to point this celestial beauty out to Buddy. I wanted to share with my pal the experience of the Transplendent. I stopped the instant I gazed into his eyes.
There is no need to show the Sacred to those for whom it is already home.
Like the Snap of a Cucumber
Like the snap of a cucumber
the crisp air brought to mind
the patter of yesterday's rain.
Rocks and gravel
crunched as I walked
the hilly trail still damp,
fresh with earthy smell.
In the west the Coronados
peeked above the ocean,
city silhouette to the north.
The sun drifted down.
Its silver-edged gold
shot through two vents
in the white-violet clouds.
“Look, Buddy,” I said,
pointing to the sky.
I wanted him to see a piece of God.
The chocolate boy turned,
looked not at the sky
but in every direction
his brown eyes carried him.
And then, as he focused
on the fluorescent lime,
the tennis ball in my hand,
my breath fell still.
The sky—
the clouds—
they were in his eyes.