We make our music, and play our way to dusk; when the mists gather, we seek the warm glow of the hearth. Late at night, one by one, the coals close their eyes. The train flies west. We hear it through our open window. No sleep. Only peace, flight, breath. Grandpa said he’d be right back. He was talking about the sun, I guess.

~

[ 2004 ]

• Kangai
• The Trembling Heath

Categories: Annotations and Elucidations

Tags: Breath, Flight, Mist, Music, Night, Peace, Play, Sleep, Sun, Trains, Windows