Red Pine

I filter in and out of focus. The damp settles across the valley and rolls up my arms. This is not so much more than anything I should know, but rather something intrinsic that I've skipped until now. Stay out of it, my brain screams as I wind myself tight into knots and screws and open plains, this all happened, is happening right now. More important the ache in my bones is less. Less compulsion (is controlling compulsion a compulsion unto itself?) finds its way into every crevice of my mind. Settling into a trance before dawn I listen to the rain against the single pain window; the frog's soliloquy garners my attention. This is all not there or here as I have only one day to finish the book I started before christmas and I am not reading. I am sitting here trying to say that the moment has not yet passed if it can expand and exhale into a phrase that holds itself contained in the cloud's shadow chasing rabbits across the neighboring field and me too, I go with them on the wind that is unseasonably warm, thick against my neck, intimate yet impersonal.