Gestures the color of greeting and departing, of knowing and concern, fear and confidence, drape every edge of experience. Wordless moments of communion say to my self, “There is not long.”
One day, the trees will go slack and cease to respond to the urging of the wind. Sun’s clock will no longer sweep, nor rain weep.
I’m lying on a hill by the James River on October 1st of 2009. Stone’s solid face evaporates; nothing is behind me.