Wednesday, February 22, 2012


From my window I can see the place on the mountain where rain turns to snow.  It is wet here, and cold. The beauty of this place is shy, only allowing a glimpse for those who happen to be looking.

I awoke yesterday in a hazy clarity of my own temporariness.  The day's list of pressing items to be done lost somewhere on the sheer slopes on the mountains standing still and tall in the sea.  To them, like the generations before me, neither I nor my actions are of any consequence.

Last night I stood across the water watching wood pallets reduce to smoke and ash.  Someone had a squeeze box and played.  The smoke rose up to the peaks with the broken melodies.  We were a band of people united for a moment by the chance of ten-thousand previous things happening just as they did.

My chair is red with designs of flowers that may have been white once. Now the smell of coffee of coffee fills the room, and the grey sky fades once more to darkness.

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