Tuesday, December 05, 2006


5 December 2006. Golden marshland...gray fields. Sun low in the west, over wide expanse of valley. A bridge, creosote logs, over dark canal, wind dropping to a whisper--vespers--only the slightest ripples. Barn swallows in late light, forked tails disappearing in the gloom. Stubble fields--the summer's crop, harvest bales in low-lying sheds...barley, millet, hay. Visitors from afar, gathered around a fire. A cup of wine, old stories--all that's shared.

...our own future, we make our own past...

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