Saturday noon . . .

It's Saturday noon at the Brooklyn Deli, downtown Spokane, a cool 78 degrees, sunny, with Bob Dylan's raspy voice singing, "I'm walking down the highway, my suitcase in my hand." I could be in Brooklyn. I'm looking up at an elevated train splashed with graffiti, rolling by as fast as the traffic, cars and a bright yellow van. City traffic outside. I'm eating Thai chicken soup hot enough to compensate for those leaves turning red and brown just outside the door.

I'm thinking about my writing (always) and today's headlines here in Spokane. Another police shooting, the third in four weeks. This time a woman tried to cut out the back window just as the police broke in on a drug raid. She got shot in the arm. She's pregnant.

On my way here, I saw a police car parked by the local synagogue, a visible officer standing guard. I don't think that happens in Brooklyn.

They reappeared this morning. Two does grazing in the field, just along the pines. Their long necks stretched out in the high grasses, their shaggy red flanks predicting winter. I hadn't spotted them all summer and wondered where the fawns of early spring had gone. But they came back to this copse of pines next to our apartment building, maybe remembering home.

I ran for the camera and when I returned, only one deer remained, leisurely grazing and then moving back under the pine trees, her long white tail flicking and then hidden from view. How I fill my days with structure, deadlines, commitments. My writing continues. The seasons turn. Winter comes. And in the spring, just maybe, new life.