While napping, I heard voices two lawns over, discussing what sounded like a pending crucifixion. I knew a man whose voice sounded like a fan belt going.
The mist muted distant trees, their lovely foliage, the only effect worth mentioning. Love and pride commingled in that moment with tears which as always were gone as soon as they appeared.
I keep waiting for some sign you're out there, listening, but it never comes. I did notice walking yesterday that the fields beyond the river are officially forest.
That mist, wraith-like, the first time we tried getting high. When cars passed I stepped far up the bank as if death were right there watching.
The twenty sentences struggle later in the day. All day I wrote and now my right arm feels shorter than my left.
The best thing about having student is how much they teach you. Sleep is as always a refuge.
"I long for something - something that I don't have." The pumpkins, for example, which steadfastly refuse orange.
My childhood was defined in part by the presence of pheasants. Adulthood by turkeys, possibly bears.
I await word and it never comes. Repetition is harder than it looks.
The tree that holds us all up is hidden in a glade. Like a loved one's prayer I coasted through the day.