alaska

could i tire of waking thus? the sunlight cuts mountains in silohettes of dark green, and grins, unabashed, at temperate sea water that licks at the pelvis of the bay. how could anyone tire of such a scene? hemlock crowds the coast line and a few ceders poke their heads above the masses, the red pines throw their limbs out claiming as much sun as can be taken in such a competitive forest. i am high up in a house made of wood, some ceder, some fir, i gaze out a plane that was once fine rock, this glass eye, and i brush the tops of the trees with my dreams.

few places are as grand as this and those that are may very well lack the magic of this place. i am speaking, of course, about alaska. the great, open, wild, the place of wonder, the last frontier, where people go to remember that they are more than just people, that they are apart of something bigger, that they are small and animal and special and bright. i dream every night. the dreams are clear and real. in fact, i often wake wondering if i had slept at all. people in my past rush up against me with the intensity of the present and i welcome them without question, like no time has passed. perhaps that's why we like to sleep. not only for rest, but for the illusion that time stops. dreams can span years, they progress or regress without consequence, the present is perpetual.