Mid Morning
The cold wet earth patiently endures the rare warmth of a sun‐filled winter morning. Beneath the surface of barely dry ground, the long memory of the Aleutian storm track lingers in the form of watery laughter in the face of the fiery sun’s futility. It’s a battle as old as time itself, and there is no middle ground.
On this morning the sun declares its promise loudly, a promise of better times to those who’ve endured a long bitter season of soul shattering storms. In this morning light there is also the promise of simple things. Joy and laughter and bicycle crashes. Coffee and beer, skin and frivolity. These simple things may well fill the day and yet the first promise will remain unfulfilled. At the end of the day, profits will still be reaped from an illegal purity, just as it’s always been.
The sad truth is that the promise of hope that this day proclaimed to those who walk above the ground will soon be broken. Take your shoes off and stand in the bare dirt, listen with the soles of your feet, and you will hear the wisdom of the earth as it prophecies the patient endurance of coldness, and the water that by noon tomorrow will be falling from the sky once again.
