Minuscule Prisms

Dawn appears slowly through drawn curtains while I empty the coffee mug, gray light filtering through the prayer like sunlight pillaring a mid-summer lake. Travel plans that come to naught, as eventually all travel plans must. One finds oneself in a dream of dogs, a narrator (whose voice is oddly familiar for one so comforting) gently informing the dreamer it is time again to live with dogs. Skimming in order to determine what is necessary vs. what is merely interesting and not clinging to anything under the false rubric of "maybe one day." Jesus is an invitation to live in ways that confound our basic human nature, which living is a) possible and even broadly helpful but b) more fun to argue against than actually work to embody. The eyeglasses of the poor, the teeth of the poor, the shoes of the poor. Unloading hay one hears what sounds like gun shots and pauses briefly, alarmed. Beginning yet another intellectual sortie into the nineteenth century - this time Darwin - which sortie failed approximately thirty years earlier. Also realizing in one's early fifties how much of their living has been influenced by Freud, that arrogant fabulist, that panicked poser. Sunlight illuminates in a fatal way minuscule prisms of frost blossoms that like the rest of us fade as we speak.