mud & dream

late afternoon, looking over the n. saskatchewan. nov. 14/08

illuminated stick-trees, n. saskatchewan river valley, nov. 14/08

brushtailed grasses, sunset by the n. saskatchewan, nov. 14/08

"I am a weak, ephemeral creature made of mud and dream. But I feel all the powers of the universe whirling within me".

-- Nikos Kazantzakis, 'The Preparation: Second Duty'.

* * *

It is November, but I don't mind so much. There are days that are black and white photographs, even the faintest hints of sepia drained out of the frost-feathered grass, the shade of a dull magpie, but I don't really feel the usual agoraphobia of the white sky. There is a richness, a comfort: the river exhales icicles on the sand, inhales the frozen rushes, the black water of a pool. My ear to your chest, water echoes inside, calmly blooming with hot platelets of ice. The long supine sun catches in the trees for a few short afternoon hours, spreading like a bruise on the horizon, settling into a warm furnace somewhere in my ribcage, so still. I am warm here with you, brushtailed grasses soft fingers on my spine, & in this strange liminal time there is peacefulness, & there is such potentiality that touches every nerve from the inside out with light.

* * *

I'll defend my thesis this week. Such sleepless anxiety, such excitement. So strange to be mostly done; just the formalities now. & then, on...