A very long weekend,
and now I'm back at it, headed for work. We've been to Minnesota, this is Wisconsin - soon heavy weather will be upon us; there is a winter storm coming, cold and snow for somebody.
As I go out to the car, it is not cold, not warm. It is not winter, not summer. The pond is the ripples on the pond, a greyness and nothing more. Everywhere we go, we are somewhere. I am here.
The flag at the cemetery blows east to west.
The morning light is almost fluid and sticky, viscous, like a clouded honey. A skunk dead along the road. He had no memory before his last moment. Now he is memory. No stink of skunk. Like we all shall be eventually, gone.
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