For the country is itself warm insufficiently, with neighbors far away as stands of trees close to the river, strong unto itself and distant. At no time in my life have I retracted the palaver found in jazz-smooth instruments. That pours now from the speaker of this telephone beside me, into which I will report my mother's solitude, her fear, and mine. I will recite the specificity of her concern, being surrounded as she is by lights she cannot use, belonging to her neighbors who are really very far away. Here in the desert, there can never be sufficient light.
Today is muted with an inattention to the weather previously mild.
All snowstorm long we wore our attitudes of layered clothes, attempting to be renaissance interior designers, seeing things and hearing how they feel in contexts foreignly desired. A woman's voice keeps interrupting now repetitive tonality and offering apologies and gratitude in general for a projected patience in which I do not partake. She interrupts then a Metheny clone to say they care about our safety, and to watch out for power lines down in our yard, move ladders, antennas, brooms and poles away from those still in position. Her voice is soothing in its age a little bit ahead of mine. Now the music's snappy with a dab of perk.