On my walk to Bible study last night, and feeling a need to meander, I poked about in a mini park near Prib's, looking for something red.
The basic stuff, from molecules to genetic instructions to beauty, are his formed from his triune mind, spoken at the dawn of time. The current form, though, bears humanity's imprint, the result of centuries of genetic management.
Born from a compact and bright bud, the rose now bears the marks of time and sun. Like sun-worn velvet, the rich red has mellowed and its hue grown in complexity. 
Once in a while, on the trip to or from work, the dailiness of the bus ride is punctuated by a train. Whether the often drawn out wait of the freight train or the swift white blur of the MetroLink, the punctuation gives a bit of pause.
Most weekdays, the basics are the same: same bus, same riders, same walks, same bus stops, same red curb.
Two pots of inexpensive silk tulips sit near my guitar set up each Sunday. I am certain someone thinks they are decorative, but I just can't get past the lie.
It's funny, but I can almost never do homework at home. Maybe it's the late arrival most nights or the prevalence of familiar distractions, I am not sure.
They are there along the daily path, catching my eye with their subtle variety and basic simplicity. Still, the color is rich, like tiny bits of velvet.
Who would do such a thing? Leave a perfectly good nylon pick in the street? Of course, maybe someone lost it and is frantic, wondering where it is.
Sometimes life gives us a left hook. Unexpected. Sudden.
While studying in the rolling office (public transportation) has its benefits, studying on the patio, under a giant umbrella, while a summer rain sprinkles down has relaxation benefits the bus cannot match. The tiny tap of drops on canvas, the cawing of Jays, the mug of fresh coffee, and the aroma of freshly rinsed dust combine into something unmatched.