August 3, 2003
Butch died in the white arm chair just outside the door with the black iron gates; gates of twisted black steel. Butch, a twisted black man. He died facing his garden, rich with snapdragons, marigolds, pink flamingos, lush grasses; wooden squirrels, plastic ducks, and a lone cactus that looked as if it walked all the way from Arizona just to be here. It must have stood 12 feet high. The trees grew like those in a rain forrest. I found a indigo blue feather on the garden’s floor, and knew this was a sacred place where ancient sprits stood watch.