Down trees all around like backdrop, granite frames the lake like a choke-collar. The rosy-finches just sit there, perched solidly on the branches of the douglas fir, and the fir just stands there, as if the whole were completely unwrapped. The sun is the star of the show, as usual. Maybe you should move, get up and walk over toward the finch, whose lack of song is a kind of clarity. The dead tree lies across the lake.
Clarity is a garment.
The urge is elsewhere. Copyright 1998 by Christopher Sindt. All rights reserved.