What is it in the haze of thingsand hearing nothing,the breath of independence,the separation of that word from freedom.There’s something that speaks in stillnessthat tempers itself like slow raindropsfalling on an umbrella – a mesmerizing tempo,immediate forgetting of what’s in front of me.I look inwardcaught up in the cool rain dusk,a searching hand lost in…

There’s something in the air, but also in the early fall sunsets, in the dusk breeze, in the waves of nostalgia that come with the transition of seasons, the transition to softness, a more gentle outlook, the putting away of yesterday’s linen, about arriving closer to a place coming into view.