A cold clear morning

Frost over the meadow

The smell of gunpowder

Mixing with sweet marijuana smoke

Both drift lazily into the bright brittle blue air

Water and fish scales

Have his hands frozen

Feathers drift lazily away on the stiff current

The mind

Blends seamlessly with the bright brittle blue air


Of loud hollow people running the republic below

Create ripples on the flat calm surface of his being

What day is it?


It is dawn


Hunting and gathering

He is

Winter moving in on the lumbering north wind

His underground bunker

Filled with furs

He likes it when he lowers the door

Is embraced by the darkness

Sinks deep into the ocean of warmth

The bristle of bear fur under his chin

He closes his eyes

It is then the colors and voices begin

It is then he thinks of her

It is then she speaks

It is then he listens

To she

That he has never seen