though he had known every quantity of life: its short repose, its indefinite strike; though he had knowledge of the indifferent span of evening and daylight and the repetitious metaphysic of sound and fury; though life had been every superstitious quality of sensate being, he, with indifference, collected the manifold days into folded gestures and
Snowshoeing—March For M and K Frozen branches of barren birch cast blue-grey shadows on the Long Trail, blanketed white. Trees encased in ice and snow, shimmer against cobalt. Cheeks red, ruddy. Our noses, eyes, sting and drip; tiny hairs now miniature icicles. Still, our bodies warm as we climb. We peel layers, swiftly stuff them
Pump It was an anonymous part of the present. It bore imprints of percolating gears enmeshed into a tentative wheel that turned back the tap of hours streaming, streaming, at the end of a handle – a tear-like dream, a sadness in uproar.