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By chris Date: 2007 Jun 07 Comment on this Work [[2007.06.07.01.01.8512]] |
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10:19 pm - a window half-open to the dark, suddenly cool as the heat of day leaves the dry air like a rush of sparks funneling upward from a campfire. High atop Black Mesa, sixteen miles from here, a desert-lean coyote walks, hungry, wondering in its very cells if there will be a killing this night. A mountain lion watches from a granite boulder up in the foothills, sees the lights of the city come on knows it will live and die and kill and nothing that ever looks upon it will survive. I find myself here, on the edge of this desert wilderness, near the middle of this life, considering the stories left to tell, the stories yet to tell, the stories I can never tell. You are asleep, lost in the narrative of dreams, the finer poetry of night. And above the hum of the evaporative cooler is Bach, in each crystalline note a life. |