peek

December is trotting along quickly.  The sun is beginning to open up on the mountains.  Everything is frozen. 

Montana looks beautiful from my window.  I try to catch some of the rays like a house plant.  It's much too cold to go outside, -20 by some estimates.  The day is a beautiful woman I cannot touch, admire from a window on the third floor, but don't dare to touch.

Two cups of coffee are beginning to open up my mind.

A cool river courses through my thoughts, a glacial pool, somewhere in September.  These thoughts are crisp but scattered like the remnant leaves of winter deciduous trees.  It's been a full few months.

I approach this blank page somewhat timidly though I try to pretend to be brave.  I haven't written here, like this, in quite a while.  I think I'm changed. 

The mountains flex, static ripple of muscle brushed lightly with snow, stand akimbo around Missoula like a ring of Paul Bunyans.  I smile, because that's what I heard you're supposed to do when you're overwhelmed, and touch the window.  My hand yelps.  How did the peoples of long ago make it through these times?  We're so fragile now.

Cup three and the train is humming along.  Sometimes writing feels like running with no fatigue, with no wind, with no pain.  Just endless miles of page and new trails all the time. 

I pant and I tap the backspace key.  Edit, edit, edit.  It's slightly haunting.  My steps not as quick as they used to be.  But I'm not a child anymore.  I can't just spit out whatever nonsense comes to my mind.  Can I?

Hello, I am writing again.  Writing for the sake of it and nothing else.  How beautiful.