frozen silence.
but for the rustle of breeze
against dry grass.
snow will come,
and a crust of snow
will settle in crystalline
interlock with the brown stalks.
the snow will absorb sound,
muffling reality,
until nothing remains but
frozen silence.
momma monkey, eyes and hands at the ready, foresees darting babe.
in the mountains, beyond every sightline, a potential top... but - more likely - just more to climb.
Climbing a mountain, I feel like I've escaped Plato's cave. My senses reel as though they're a crew of newly freed slaves. The sky is bluer, rivers green, each grit granule is clear. And even at the very edge, there's ease in feeling fear. By "ease" I mean not frozen stiff, but like a friend so dear that one can take one's grand peril, a gift received with cheer. Take me to the mountains, I say, where it's serene and real, and I can open up my sight to a world that's ideal.
an egret saunters with purpose as the insect stands stock still.
a building's corner shows like the edge of a face, under a tree's coif
two common trees,
seen from a distance,
merge to an ideal.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 