Wanderings
Journeys, not destinations.
From up here the river is a thread, and the argument you came with is smaller than that.
Above a certain height the weather happens beneath you, and there is nothing left to do about anything.
One tree, holding its ground in the fog. Not waiting for the fog to lift.
The sea at that hour is not beautiful yet. It is simply awake before anyone else.
Gold on the water for about eleven minutes, and then not.
Cold water the colour of glass, and a long way from anywhere that knows your name.
Green water, a red boat, no hurry in either.
Cold stone, a wet lawn, and the particular silence of a place built to outlast you.
The road froze mid-fall and stayed that way. Nobody asked it to be beautiful.
