(no subject)
Postcards:
A Mountaintop Lake-- A lake like shattered mirrors, it's shores all so flat and stoney you could barely tell where water ends and land began. Ancient volcanoes like the noses of sleeping giants push up through the earth all around us. No trees, save the gnarled log nearby on the shore. No birds. But the sun was rising and the wind woke us up.
Somewhere on the Gold Beach-- Crafting underground sandcastles with driftwood roofs, to hide from the wind on a day that was too cold for the beach. The ocean roared, and I sat underground with a gray masterpiece overhead, wondering how old the sand was, where it has been, who has touched it before.
A Lonely Road in the Pacific Northwest-- Pulled over on the side of the road where the trees opened up to reveal the most brilliant stars on the darkest night. There was a cabin down the road. I only knew it was there by the way the stars filtered through the lazy puffs of woodsmoke from the chimney. It was spring, no snow on the ground but the wind still stung and we all wore blankets to keep warm. We'd close our eyes when the lonely logging truck came rushing by like disaster, so we could still tee the stars when it was gone.
A Mountaintop Lake-- A lake like shattered mirrors, it's shores all so flat and stoney you could barely tell where water ends and land began. Ancient volcanoes like the noses of sleeping giants push up through the earth all around us. No trees, save the gnarled log nearby on the shore. No birds. But the sun was rising and the wind woke us up.
Somewhere on the Gold Beach-- Crafting underground sandcastles with driftwood roofs, to hide from the wind on a day that was too cold for the beach. The ocean roared, and I sat underground with a gray masterpiece overhead, wondering how old the sand was, where it has been, who has touched it before.
A Lonely Road in the Pacific Northwest-- Pulled over on the side of the road where the trees opened up to reveal the most brilliant stars on the darkest night. There was a cabin down the road. I only knew it was there by the way the stars filtered through the lazy puffs of woodsmoke from the chimney. It was spring, no snow on the ground but the wind still stung and we all wore blankets to keep warm. We'd close our eyes when the lonely logging truck came rushing by like disaster, so we could still tee the stars when it was gone.