Merry Go: Slow
A pair of red-tailed hawks dance in thermals over a tiny lake, between rocky hills whose scattering of gray pines and manzanita are a patchwork of two-year-old charcoal and sun-bleached white. The sky freckles and streaks, pure blues and white. Wind flies past all those bare places, between the shapes of the hawks, and over our own bony edges, our fleshy trajectories, our options.
There is a peaceful loss here. This place is not easy; and it is very beautiful.