Friday, October 05, 2007
story writers
We’re that. Mercilessly spilling it out.
So there I am, biking to work. The long way. Ten miles plus.
It is the underbelly of autumn now in Madison. Brown rather than red or golden. And really, mostly still green. With a rare burst of color.
I bike and I come across the geese. Always the geese. Fly south already! (I’m much less scary than I appear.)
They stare at me and stay put.
Why is it that none of us can ever leave? We hover, and we land, right back where we started from.
Oh life.
So there I am, biking to work. The long way. Ten miles plus.
It is the underbelly of autumn now in Madison. Brown rather than red or golden. And really, mostly still green. With a rare burst of color.
I bike and I come across the geese. Always the geese. Fly south already! (I’m much less scary than I appear.)
They stare at me and stay put.
Why is it that none of us can ever leave? We hover, and we land, right back where we started from.
Oh life.
encounter
It's almost dusk. I walk into the field.
What's your name?
Nina...
Nina? Do you live here?
Yes... (why do I say this? Perhaps because today, after a long week, I choose not to be a strict constructionist)
Good! Not many people nearby... Here!
She hands me flowers she had only seconds ago cut down.
For you.
Thank you.
What's your name?
Nina...
Nina? Do you live here?
Yes... (why do I say this? Perhaps because today, after a long week, I choose not to be a strict constructionist)
Good! Not many people nearby... Here!
She hands me flowers she had only seconds ago cut down.
For you.
Thank you.
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