(Merry Christmas to one. The photo so specific it hurts.)
Tonight: Boise, ID.
A soft, empty rain falls across this black town. I walk among strangers. The slur of autos. The slick whisper of tires meeting road. The loom and stretch of the unfamiliar clings to buildings, the dry mountains above. Lonesomeness and her dearly beloved companion interstate travel spur me. I am poised at the ragged edge of year’s end, the very earth being peeled away by bitter winds, rivers running with liquid obsidian. The birds have all gone, huddled in another time and space. There is quiet linger in our thoughts, a precedent always felt here in the shortest days. The whip and howl and curse of so much holiday leads me to walk that fine line between storm and benevolence.