I had been concerned with the disappearance of an unwritten contract, writing about a stenographer who sketched in mud, when we were surprised by a visitor. An Alaskan husky running across the lawn, right up to our table.

It's hard to believe, just as I was about to address some audience . . .

The dog smiles, a piercing gaze with blue eyes, expecting something. I say hello. As though I had said nothing, he spots the cookie crumbs left out in Mr. Finch's wooden dish. “No!” But he slurps on.

The next surprise is Frankie, claws out, striking at this dog five times his size. The cookie raid ends. The counter attack begins, and Frankie is running for his life. He's quick, like a squirrel, scrambling up the hackberry trunk.

I repair the fence, nailing up an extra board. But the damage has been done. Frankie slowly returns, looking everywhere. He needs a kind word. “Frankie, you are a brave cat! You defended us. Thank you.” And in a rare show of simpatico, he squinches his eyes.

Since coming here from the animal shelter, and probably even there, he's known only cats. He's friendlier with Twinkie than with us. But now the backyard has become a dangerous place.

At the moment, he's snuggled up next to my feet.

This might seem chaotic, or less than ideal for writing anything. But consider how the weather comes down. In the Weather Channel discussion, we're shown currents moving in opposite directions, at several levels in layers, at different speeds, with a mix of dew points and temperatures, all combining to produce what hits the ground.

The results are of abiding interest. I return to the sketch.

For some reason I'm hit with a flow of ironic images, sharply side-lit engravings: A tomb stone. Stone tablets -- Moses? On and on, skittering over my Samsung tablet which seems like a desert mirage, suddenly flooded amidst reports of unseasonable rain, and a slurry of what the crows said, all of it shifting together, somewhat in sync, but the whole of it out of kilter. How to interpret that? “Audience . . .”

Frankie does not snore like Twinkie. Just where does the course of dreaming meet reality? What is “awake?”

Somewhere along the line, “audience,” those who hear, morphed into “readers,” those who might silently move their lips. It took a quantum leap, becoming a mental re(hear)sal without confinement to written words and thoughts. So for now my audience of readers is out of ear shot, penetrating music of the spheres and dreams. Yet readers are interested in what happens on the ground, the weather coming down.

It might be too late to sweep the seas back into icebergs and glaciers. And how will we shove methane and carbon dioxide back into the genie's lamp? (Is we necessary?) Some fool slips and falls on The Big Red Button? Then the aliens we've been trying to contact might see a brief flash.

Choosing absurdity as my totem, I tender the redwoods of Bear Creek Road in payment of a noncancellable debt. Reality?

Well, not everyone will agree here. But of course slaughtering cattle and burning fossils is justified. Oh, there is a chance to lessen suffering? Humbug. Profit! Or we might stop killing each other? The meaning of life is war!

And when there's no one left to kill? Please accept my redwoods.

My, my! Frankie opens his eyes. He carefully washes a paw, then back to sleep. Perchance to dream.