Fall lengthens toward. The Termination Dust marching resolutely down and down and down…

Not yet cold enough for errant snow to stick. A stillness, a reason. The birch peeling small scrolls on which it is written. The sonic, the intimate. Pages turned. Each day a notched celebration of living, life’s first second third act. It’s haze, a high lonesome of distance and noise rushed for no apparent reason at reader and writer alike.

In a story so short I’m really not telling it: Erin and I are, for the next year, carataking a lodge on Mikchalk Lake north of Dillingham, AK. Comes with pictures to boot!