Mizpah

The hydrants are open
Cool breezes
blow

We begin the day in words. Your story climbs out from its hiding place, brushes the dust from its hair, wonders if the war is over. It's been a long summer in the fallout shelter. A year ago we sat in the black Nevada desert and let the Milky Way blow us away; I struggled with the words then but all we can do is try again. When all is said and done I like to think I learned something from the mistakes I made.

We ended the day in words, too. A familiar tingle lingered in my body, warm, sweet, like I had longed for it without knowing for ages. It felt like home.

Fall lies in the margins like an imagined monster, full of claws and Darkness, but it doesn't arrive alone. There's a silence around it, a quiet space and no one to interrupt you in it. If you sit really still, and listen really closely, a world will reveal itself to you that no one else knows, that no one else sees, and all you have to do is write the story that tells itself to you to know the purpose of your feet on this earth. The monsters will always be there, but if you are very, very brave, you will hold their hand and be rewarded with the stars.