windless.

first thing, i looked up to that little window to see if the big face of the moon would shine through but there was no moon this black morning. none. gone. only the strange black that sighs and goes blue. and for the first time in my life, i missed the moon. it is a thing i've never given much thought or time. i have never admired it or believed in it, never thought its pull extended to me. but this morning, i felt lonely without it and the early air seemed too still, too quiet. aching. windless.

but now the odd periwinkle is up and glittering. a veil. a fish belly. and inga snores in the big red chair. the traffic on the highway is thin. thursday already. the days are short and quick. they resist my desires and i have only so much time. and so i scribble scribble scribble to pin myself down, to build a little world with my own moving hand. my ink spilled- a world in black and white and the shade in between. beautiful, odd things. austere and shining and soft. tiny golden shimmers in the cracks and black apples falling falling falling...

yesterday on my vineyard run, i came to the place at the far edge where the dead river is, disappeared since summer, and three huge vultures were lined up on the stakes at the end of the vineyard aisles. a forth flapped soundlessly in a wide circle over head. there was no sound. no whisper. mute feathers. i wondered if i should be afraid. inga's ears and tail went up and she watched them. but the vultures just sat and stared with their backs to us. we passed by in our clumsy, bouncing stride and they never once paid us any mind at all. and on the way out, we detoured and ran down a wide aisle where the vines had not been cut down yet. tiny blue birds shot out from the rows, the same purpley blue of the grapes. flashing flashing in the hard light. sapphires, sparking and spinning.

winter has arrived.
it is full-blown.