Evening thoughts

Today I stood halfway up the cliff and watched a single bird wheeling against the silvering sky. "That's me," I thought.

I am not so happy with my second post to Kipley, as my first. I am on surer ground with the spiritual.

It is good to have this time on the water. Leonid would call this cabin a dacha, a retreat house.

I told Eugenio once he was a dreamlord, and I am one also.

Once at the Odin, we had a morning rehearsal which was completely ordinary. And an afternoon which was suddenly, magically cracked open and deep. One moment cannot predict the next.

I love people who surprise me.

I feel pregnant, as if some shining thing is flowing toward and through me. I feel like a mortal, bearing Poseidon's child.

Kingfisher rests his
jackhammer head, cocked and
bright. Fish! Hoarse trill, splash.

Mother moves more slow,
bandaged, cut, draining; prunes her
garden, drinks sweet tea

Rachel dreams a green
theatre, by water that
touches Thorsminde

Tide laps the clay cliff
washing it petal-smooth; alder
trees bend, reach, drink