Sunday, October 22, 2006

I am not dying in the field.

I am reflecting the hills

Monday, October 09, 2006

I am a bird trapped in a sunset-colored room. And I am flying.

Not long ago, I returned home and was greeted by a bird. A bird who had grown accustomed. Accustomed to all sorts of things. New things. A bird who stretched it's legs. And smoked it's pipe and layed it on the mantle. It grew old in time. It grew a beard in time. And left through the window.