In the ecstatic madness sits a different kind of bliss so untethered that you drift far from the familiar. There is no cord unwinding to snap you into place, and you may float into and out of your original face. And when one stands screaming, unwilling to be shooshed - naked as a J-bird - immune to being rushed, you may find a freedom that would terrify the rest: the homeless kind of freedom of the sanity dispossessed.
Thick clouds scrape over the ridge. In the foreground, sun-fired sands shine brightly, but the mountain behind has fallen dark, as if it's being marched over by the waves of a ghost army -- formless battalions that block the light. When that marching army reaches the nearer mountain, it will neither stop nor slow, but will crawl overland, coming ever nearer. the fore mountain shines, even as a ghost army closes from behind
Subsequent ridges fade into shapes, darker and less distinct. The farther down the lake one looks, the lower the clouds hang, until they obscure all trace of the apparent infinity of ridges. In front of the one sun-warmed wall of mountain, two rainbows arch skyward, disappearing into the clouds. One is a weak echo of the other. My Irish mind imagines the arc-segments are full semi-circles -- pot-o-gold, and all that. But the weak one seems to quit before it even reaches the cloud, and thus makes me wonder if rainbows are real, and - if they are - is the weak one as real as the bright one. double rainbow arches up from the lake, stoking pondering
the elephant
they said was on a rampage
just had a bad toothache
circling raptors sweep down onto the platform; they peck and tear; when sun-bleached bones remain, nature's hard work begins
Patches of grassy land stand above the water. They lop up the lake into a labyrinth of passageways. Even in a shallow draft canoe, one can often see past the phumdi grass, but still one must know the tiny isles or be trapped among them. a narrow boat silently glides between floating islands
no mansion makes a mind smile like a flower festooned shack
