Meeting at the Well

I still load the three-gallon glass bottles into the car, tuck sweatshirts and towels between them, and drive the rutted dirt road into the tiny town of Eldorado Springs, to the spring itself.
When we first moved here, it was a steel double-sink, a hose that ran from 6 a.m to 6 p.m., and a metal box into which we put money on the honor system. Now it is a newfangled machine that swallows money, sometimes spits it back up, and does not necessarily take credit cards like it says it will. We still help each other load and unload and coax the machine to do right by us. Sometimes, like today, there is someone who has machine-magic, offers to give me quarters, helps move the bottles to the car. The Artesian water still comes, most of the time, and I drive carefully home on the rutted dirt road to the clanking of the bottles.

At home, Mishka does not care that I have been schlepping bottles.
She wants a lap for a while.
And when I leave and come to the desk, she may come up, as she has tonight, curling to nap by my right arm.
She twitches in her sleep, and I don't know if it is a dream or merely a twitch.

I have been praying for a major change in our country and in our world.
And for myself--- a more open heart.
Good night.