Day high and gray, us living amongst winter, her wares. There is no sun, just a glimpsed, growing moon. The snow is trammeled, left in bright, rotted patches high on the blue mountains. Breathe comes rapid, is expelled. Each morning exponential, limitless in her ability to remind of limitation. Our days are our days. We are surviving, simply glancing time and again off the faces of this earth. Beauty, may it continue to be witnessed.

Any glimpse of the great white ball merits image:

Ravens bits of shined and black
obsidian with wings.
Mountains smoke in storms aftermath.
Great chunks of distant blue hillside
awash in torn clouds and the still grief of new snows.

Sew what:

Trees in stretch:

it’s coming…

So precise, so imprecise, this witness, this being alive. Even with a new year the moon continues. I stand beneath her as she sways toward full. Born of rocks, trees, and rivers, we share mother and father. The water at my feet is black, cold as our motives, quiet, and belligerent as the season allows. Deep breath and miss engulfs conscious thought. Lo! I am a long ways from home, from the manmade comforts of city, her fingers a twined, paradoxical set. Light and camera and traffic and the quiet slip of evening as you move out and across her with the eternal respects afforded a new lover are creations legible purposes.