Not nearly twilight yet, just the day drawing in here. Across the creek and up the rise, a young velvet buck raises himself to his hind-legs to pick late spring apples. Two rascal jays, one Steller and on scrub, land on far ends of the porch railing: head tilts, pause and motion, a few seeds sampled, flights back to the Redwoods. The last cup of this morning's pot of coffee is in my hands. I am leaning much of my weight on my elbows and thinking I ought to go do my physical therapy, feeling the pain in my lower back. This week, a friend tugged playfully at the silver in my hair and told me that I was too young for it. I am proud of it, proud to have made it this far and long.