Thoughts on the Highland House
It rains, a rare enough occurrence in arid Colorado. This morning though, looking up out the back door, the sky above is blue with only a few small clouds and still it rains right through the sunshine. The rain is magical here. Sitting at the kitchen table with my french press full of coffee I am enjoying the sound of rain immensely as it quenches the garden, bounces off the now shimmering leaves of the intoxicating mock orange tree and pours here and there out of downspouts onto such surfaces as the brick patio, the questionably legal water barrel and our struggling lawn. Now my rather romantic rainy reverie is broken by the alarm I set for the loaf of rye bread I popped in the oven an hour ago. The rain is too ephemeral. It’s already done and small white butterflies flit about the mock orange to the tune of an occasional soft drip. The garden here is wild and in desperate need of weeding to the eye of a gardener, but I generally leave it to be as is, not fully sure how much owner