Pleasantries

In the late afternoon, midwinter sunshine across barren fields, leaving New York City behind and speeding down the highway, it's a special kind of joy in the freedom of driving out that I haven't quite wrapped my head around yet. The joy lies perhaps most in knowing I can just as easily return. 

I arrived at the creaky little house right as twilight settled across the Hudson, a magic moment and happy faces in the door, a longed for breath of fresh air. Everything is surreal in the side-real, the sun seems to rise at different angles, the clocks move at speeds all their own. We sat at the bar later, a bar, can you believe it? and tried to catch up on things which refuse to be caught. A book of poetry burns a hole in my back pocket, what a dream it is to live in words, what a gift. It gets dark so early here in the country. 

I wonder if one day I'll show you. 

We can set the clocks however we like, I promise.