26 February 2010. Two crows heading east , set against bank of dark cloud. Row of melaleuca, mimosa just behind. Profusion of tiny yellow flowers...
The cares of a family man. Kafka's wry tone. Or is that that indeed the word? A tone, nonetheless, as in all that he wrote--something implied, more whiff than designation. And yet so seamingly solid. So that one almost gives up wondering... But never quite...
Figures on the bank of a river--a group of women with baskets and satchels, a waiting boat, dark water. Hills lightly drawn on the far shore.
Volga. Something sensed more than defined...
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