Blog-azic

 Can you spot the Heron? Taken at a pond across the street from the office at which I'm training.  I'm walking along the sidewalk from my hotel to the office, marveling at the palm trees and guzzling down a familiar scent, absolutely drinking the air as much as my lungs can take. What is it? Ah, yes, the moisture, salt, sand - it's tropical, and I have not smelled it in years. I remember long stretches of beach, the solitude, blessed sunshine, stiffling heat, and the feeling of poorness. Nothing at all was mine, save an old banjo and the beach full of sea glass, frosted green and white . So now, day dreaming in class, I'm already cherishing the moments I'll have this weekend, when back home in Raleigh, my lady and I will wrap up frosty glass memories with wire, and dangle them from pine boughs in the living room.

We're up and on the road north, over the piedmont. Some of the oak trees are holding onto leaves, deep red and crinkly brown. I remember the fire that burned this fall from sumac to creeper. It climbed up the hickory and set it to orange flames! Now I'm staring down a wall of mountain. It reminds me of a silky grey ribbon blowing in a breath of wind and slowed down so that i can follow each ripple. The ripples look frozen, solid, unmoving and unchangeable. After a moment of reflection, though, I realize that the mountains are moving. As I draw nearer, time begins to slow for me. Cars passing me become streaks of color and then disappear entirely. The sky is a pulsing strobe of night and day. Then, the mountain's face slowly comes alive. Gashes open in the rock, grow, and race along the mountain chain. Arms are thrust out and recoiled. Dirty flesh is shorn away showing grey bone. It dissolves itself into soil and is thrown away. The earth under my seat becomes like wate