For This Life
One step and then another we enter this cave of our dream, this whirlwind of years: A cool day. Wet after hard autumn rain. Above us the maples and walnuts arch black and almost naked. A river of birds flows south beneath ragged clouds. How is it that our days dissolve into this perpetual present like a vanishing storm until for an instant each gesture is sacred each small sound an echo in a temple of bone?
[Contents][Headlands | Intermountain Blues | Keeping Time | A Perfect Circle]