host

The word “dappled” sauntered into my head about 10 days ago. I believe I was staring out kitchen slider windows in a house Ann’s sister Patty had rented in Bend, Oregon. A break from her Washington work, home, and life, and to which she graciously and generously invited Ann and I – and their brother and his wife from the Oregon coast – for a week. I was looking out at the Deschutes River, which was flowing by at a pretty good clip just right out there, down from around the bend of water with the kingfisher’s perch, and under a bridge and out into the confines of Drake Park. The city of Bend, Oregon pretty much outdoing itself.

And there were off-and-on gentle showers of rain, and I was looking out the slider windows and seeing the small plops and bounces of rain falling on the river, and the word “dappled” came to visit.

I see the kingfisher sitting on a perch, fixed on the river below. The water sometimes sparkling with reflected sunbeams. Sometimes dappled with a soft rain. Still – it’s only the river.

Still, I got a visit from “dappled.”