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Reflections from the fireworks in the rain


The Morning A Crow Followed Me Home

I closely preceded the dawn when I left that house to walk across this city to my own bed. Somewhere after crossing the tracks between silent box cars dressed in the reverberating hum of compressors, I was greeted by a lone crow. No one else to talk to, I said hello and carried on about my path. As I rounded from behind the quiet plaza to the main street, my new companion flew to a nearby tree.

‘You’re following me, aren’t you…’


‘Yeah.’ And so this went on until I was nearly home. I walked through the plaza, up West Street, sauntered across a uniquely sleeping Main Street, and began my ascent up Woodstock Avenue, discussing everything which had been on my mind with my momentary companion along the way. The crow’s response was always the same, but I enjoyed its company nonetheless. We greeted the dawn as I approached my home, then parted ways. I rested well.


Another old piece, as it was written. This is titled Quickening and is companion to Awakening.



Another old piece, as it was written. This is titled Awakening and is companion to Quickening.


Of Frost And Ardor

   With frost hanging in the air and inclement winter weather moving into the valley, I post yet another old piece, mildly revised and cleaned up, for the reading pleasure of any who will it. This is titled Of Frost And Ardor and sums a feeling still relevant in this period.


When Leaves Turn To Fire…

When the leaves turn to fire, I come enthralled by desire. Autumn is the season which births my passion. I writhe in the death throes of the year. Days shorten and cool. Nights carry the final brilliant climax of life on the air.

This is a season of fire. Whose flame do I see burning around me? I have your scent. I hunger. Howl to the moon with me and let go of restraint. Your blood is on my hands and I have your scent.

Autumnal Beginning

   Summer has died. The leaves upon the trees are igniting their fiery hues. The air smells different. The fragrance of a ripened world on the cusp of sleepful death has begun to move upon the winds. A chill lurks in the air. The days are shortening. I am feeling more alive.

   This is the season of desire. I am deeply moved by impulse and passion and full of formless inspiration in the autumn. I desire and crave and long in the lengthening night. I am ever awestruck by the beauty of the harvest and changing world. So much life is so aged and ready for final brilliance. I cling to this far too short season and the feelings it manifests.