The Black Sage Journal

This piece first appeared in Issue 1, Volume 13 of bioStories Magazine . My pick-axe sinks deep into the tread of the trail with a satisfying “thunk.” The soil gives ground easily to the blade now that rain has finally fallen. It’s almost dark and I’m alone on the hill. The mountain bikers, hikers, runners, and dog walkers have retreated for the night leaving me with the coyotes and the crescent moon. I take another whack. The ground, heavy with blue clay that has been compacted by a parade of tires, feet, and hooves, splits to reveal the dark soil beneath. A promising sign. That wouldn’t have happened a week ago. Then, impregnable to the steel in my hands, the surface would have simply shattered like broken pottery. That all changed with the rain. Now the earth is malleable. It bends to my will. And to my axe. So I swing it until I can no longer see the trail in front of me.  It feels good to be alone in the local hills in fading light. Digging in the dirt, moving rocks, re-aligni...

  Image courtesy of Syriac Press The signal turns red just before we arrive at the intersection. There is no cross-traffic to trigger the light. It’s just shy of 6 a.m. and the gray streets are empty except for the occasional work truck festooned with implements of the landscaper’s trade. But municipal functionaries are failing if traffic is flowing, so I curse under my breath as we wait for phantom cars to pass. When the danger subsides and the light triggers green, we wheel into the parking lot and roll nose-first up to our spot against the chain-link fence protecting the fields of play.  We’ve done this a thousand times before. It’s the morning ritual. Every day, I awake at first light to the sounds of Joji grunting, snorting, sneezing, and shaking. When it becomes evident that these noises will increase in both frequency and volume if I pretend to ignore them, I give up and get up, pour coffee, grab the harness and leash, and start for the duck park. Although this Groundho...