Thanksgiving is mostly over and the southwest Ohio skies are relatively clear with a wispy cloud cover diffusing the mostly full moon. A bowl of Boswell's Best smolders confidently in an imperceptible breeze; tendrils of pleasant aroma float in the air. The tamp makes it's customary periodic visit and smoke curdles a little heavier. I close my eyes and listen to the gentle sounds in the darkness. A dog barks and his owner quiets him. I hear the rustle of a mouse or other small creature in the dead leaves that lightly coat the back yard. Thinking back on the day, I hear my parents laughter over a well played card in the family Euchre game. The bowl ends too soon. Another evening, another bowl awaits. I look forward to it.
