by Brent Miller
My sources of inspiration are the animal children which complete my home, sweet home.
This house, a large box - rectangle on a hill - overlooking a great lake and populated military base which invites countless free airshows, local F-35s and sometimes Blue-Angels. My deck hangs over a hillside, towering one hundred feet above neighboring homes. I sit sipping tea, watching my children of choice romp in tall grasses, gazing as planes fly beyond; dreaming of the next bird to coo to. How they soar like wild condors, swooping for prey - soldiers in a base like tin toys on my shelves. My living room, filled with tall glass windows, long wooden floor beams, a projector and massive movie screen. The couch and recliner provide ample comforts for watching air-conditioned airshows. My large screened porch - outdoor twin of living room - only separated by a single French, glass door. It’s concrete floors, painted ceramic in color only because our contractor, un-savvy with stain. That purchase, we regret - the rest, worth millions beyond cost. Seven rooms off my living space, each teasing different purposes. The hub of my existence is the room in which I write - my garden of inspiration, distraction and choice; has been roosted, arrested, by mine animal children. I wouldn't change a thing.