Same old slippers
Same old rice
Same old glimpse of paradise
—William James Lampton
Framed by the small window above my writing desk I can see the tips of the grass waving green and gold. My writer’s shack, which stands behind the house in a windbreak full of aging trees, is ungrazed, so the grass grows just as high as it pleases. In a year with regular precipitation that means knee high. During a dro…