With earth you wonder whether God lit
the wrong end of a cigarette, tossed it aside.
-J. Harrison
Pigeons in Butte, AK —
We’re colliding; these years new and old. Like river rocks, they clack and re-arrange, sidling up to time as though friendship isn’t just the devouring of another. Dreams are built less of passage, more from accumulations and wide normality.
“…these questions of happiness
plaguing the world.”
-d. johnson
It’s there. A dashboard pours readings of the highest sort. The pilot scanning gauges, offering input, feeling a part of the machine. And why not, he believes himself author and director of that spilling before him. Speed. Direction. Arrival. They pour forth as daily, unloved magics. From A to B to C to A. Control as a too-often-medium goes unnoticed.
Anchorage, Alaskas —
The sun also rises. Beckoning later and later, orange and cold, it slots above the Chugach erasing shadows. Late in the years, these days are absolutely distilled. Honed to a precipitous edge, the backside nothing but long, black sleep. We watch ourselves pass from light to darkness — unhurried, quietly shepherded to winter’s waiting maw.
The Matanuska River. Cottonwoods. Pioneer Peak.
Moose, Bull.
Found: Train Tracks in motion.