Ancient midnight bonfire dancing.
Oak doorway and a period grange.
Fleet footed lake breeze advancing.
Pen to paper and no dial tone.
Eyes to the tree line.
Soft lit silk and led light dome.
Rooftop view of my byline.
Blue-stone, weatherboard, and courtyard abode.
Elaborately framed mirrors.
Rotten wood fencing and a dirt road.
Volume 11 and no one hears.
Sun drenched summers.
Sunned; like tentacles from a cosmic invertebrate lashed my skin.
An autumn where trees undress. Their leaves look beautiful dying.
White winter landscapes, like it rained 3000 year old salt-mines.
Wolves howl the goodnight lullaby that would destroy city life.
I can see the breath leaving my body. Chop wood and lumber home.
Late nights and morning slumbers. I work best alone.
3-5-1 Mustang to town, shop supplies and dine gourmet.
Southern Comfort for comfort, and to warm my bones.
Rooms where I don't have to be anybody.
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