Cropping a photograph from the previous evening, a line or two present themselves, words about unfinished projects, what it is in my makeup that drives me to completion, and a newfound willingness to leave them undone. Neither am i as driven to analyze, to understand, nor to try an make sense of the whirl that surrounds me as i was even a decade ago. Reality, i have come to accept, is beyond my comprehension.This feels like maturity, but it may be exhaustion.
The sun has yet to clear the hill, the weakening dark still lies upon the field, and i walk through it toward the woods. Spindles of light are gathering on the rise among the trunks, the day stretching its fingers among the trees, sometimes touching the ground with its carpet of wet leaves. My boots are soaked by the condensations of night.
Morning climbs down the trunks. A crow clears its throat. Rising in the near distance where the paved road runs unseen is the clamor of human society, the too-near distance. I follow the path i have made for myself through the cold and dewy woods, spider lines across my face, a little disoriented, going with it.
Morning climbs down the trunks. A crow clears its throat. Rising in the near distance where the paved road runs unseen is the clamor of human society, the too-near distance. I follow the path i have made for myself through the cold and dewy woods, spider lines across my face, a little disoriented, going with it.
