On a day of sudden gusts, papers flattened against the street's face blow up again, a funnel of words whirling, I see myself in outline only, with no interior details.The lines are simple, single 'curves' and have been as fine as any that came later. There was a grace from the start. This is the mystery incised very deeply to move ahead.

Walking between people promenading,
the mountain disappears in the same perspective as relentless developers of buildings everywhere planned

or going up. Even with the heart of icebergs melting, I am reluctant to leave the river's shallow bed.

Mt. Hood rises in the distance, an early snowfall melting on its shoulders, climbers on its mottled slopes? I can't see with such resolution.

Behind me children
scream, splashing in the
circle of a fountain. Or is
it Sasquatch, tired , with
winter still far ahead?


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