San Antonio is humid, verdant.
There are birds that sing outside the window and
noise from the distant freeway and nearby streets rise up to this room, under the eaves, here in this house.
The house is old, was fine in its day and maintains some of its former grandeur.
The garden behind the house has been producing peppers already, the yard has run riot and needs a good trim, fences sag and paint is peeling.
Different people live in this house, a goodly group, who are thoughtful and careful and directly, indirectly
share a bit of their lives,each with each other
under this roof,
in this house.
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