And I think this morning about eyes, the stories within eyes.
We think we can read them but we see broad strokes.
We see the arc
and not the underlying impulse
propelling this life through this story.

Letters from the Road -
Early morning, January 12, 1997

I

Tuco is restless, hasn't been on a long ride for a while.
He's thinking about eyes too... Arlu's eyes
and how they arc when her story gets lively.
Half the fun of her stories is watching her enjoy the telling.

Tuco pours himself some coffee and mutters,
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."¹
Well, used to, no sugar anymore. Doesn't need the calories.

He looks out toward the corral.
His horse is finishing the morning's grain.
Almost time to ride. A bright, cold day.

A hawk turns slow circles off to the west.
There are mice in that brush.
But the mesquite will block the hawk's dive.

More stories in eyes, Tuco thinks,
hawk's eyes, mouse eyes, and the horse is looking at him.
No curiousity shows in the horse's eyes
but he must wonder why this leisurely breakfast.

Tuco wonders what stories
Arlu's eyes will bring next week...
how the telling will unfold.

He remembers something he'd read some time back,
"Have fun at what you do. It will reflect in your work.
No one likes a grump except another grump."²
He'll have to weave that into a story for Arlu,
she'll love it
if told right.