Moon and sky
and sun and Monday.
Fog about the earth, as if we're some distant planet. I know we're not, but all along the rim of the world color is captured and held, held softly. The sun's got its arms around us.
News comes that a vagabond friend has bought a house. Ho! the world stands still. This is the day between what was and what you don't expect. It will take some getting used to, the nomad putting down roots.
A harsh frost on the windshield. Sun and frost and the air's loveliness. In the sun the frost melts. Highway E north of Fairwater is wet with it. The hole that was the hawk tree, a hazy nimbus; the ghost of it is a ghostly thing.
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