2:40pm: it's difficult to ever feel like one path is the same. the destination is familiar, but i never know the way there.
there is snow here and there, sheets of water so still that i'm convinced they are glacial, until i begin to watch the stream flow below. listen

3:05pm: scraps and grime and liquid collects in all the concavities on the floor. look

3:35pm: the iced over ground makes the path slower to follow, consequently you notice more.

there's a green tint to the frozen puddles, and there are things stuck in time there too. everything cracks when i begin to walk.

there are wells of fragility everywhere;

they accumulate over time.
they spill over, at the breaking point - filling this place up

with sorrow, and joy.

no one is here. anyways, no one ever stops to ask me what's going on.

4:09pm: there is an expanding colony of lichen here now, all over the bark - fallen or not. i breathe in. the air is crisp. breathe


i am walking next to the housatonic river.



enter