Outside the windows, snow is flurrying about, maddening. The house cross the yard and the leaves both yellow. It is lighting the air in all directions. Near naked, spiny trees pale off into the whiteness a few blocks down. I reckon we are in a cloud.
Today I have been struggling. Smiling up at the brief sun but my head aches on and off. I am thinking about voices echoing, not my own. What good is all that? Time spent frivolously, slipping off to torture oneself? Like the Devils mad work. Witnessing history in our step.
The small home is making all the house noises. I can hear the clocking gently taping, there are pipes clanging and hooving from time to time. I wonder who lives in the walls these days. About right when I begin to long for it, the heat lets out a sharp exhale through the baseboard vents. A car slops through the alley time and again, tired as we are. I hear myself take a deep breath, not very often. Like in another room, after the fact, hm.m..
I do miss school, how it had been.
It was a place for lively debate, genuine curiosity about the deeper interests of each other. Outside world concerns sure, but why do I write? These days I am tired and worn from the same conversations. The people I love most pursue of course, but the world beyond the glass wall is foggy and slow moving. I wonder what all the others are thinking.
The bell in the most beautiful church downtown is tolling now, a half block from the kitchen. It has not stopped. Not near the hour, what might the emergency be? Pause, it returns for four more slower gongs, what are they thinking?
The walls in my house catch the sunlight across the way, like a portal open. Three tall windows, and the room is yellow too.
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