Morning stillness. My heart aches, my brain is wired, and the radio says a storm is coming. A late addition to the canon? I have participated in the destruction of what I love and this is my season to repent. Sourdough, Santa Claus, celibacy.
Not the story but the teller and not the teller but the light in which he knows to tell a story? Monsters appear and I brush them aside, having trained with demons and angels for exactly these confrontations. Instant coffee with Joe in his little kitchen after visiting his oxen, happy in a way I would not be again for a very long time. One grows tired of the old arguments, takes a chair to the window and watches the light change. In my heart it is always winter.
Passing through the dining room and pausing to talk to my son who feels distant now, more and more alien. Happiest with my feet in the shallows. The far mountains are dust-colored, lovely against the lighter sky, a horizon against which the life of me collides. The next sentence is not this sentence, which is – no kidding – the previous sentence. A can of beans heating in coals, Jake resting a few feet away.
There was this love once, once there was this way of being in the world that was like lightning, a wilderness. When free doughnuts are no boon. The rough tongues of the calves against my thumb, dust motes everywhere, the whole world a deluge of beauty only words could possibly be the equal of. Saffron and sapphire. Hansel writing poems in a café in a city that nobody back home knows about.
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