Sitting reading W.Berry while watching the vagaries of an April snow storm: White out conditions blocking vision courted by knife sharp winds slicing under the panes. A moment more and pale lemon sun peers upon sugar dusted fields dotted with brave flowers, slowly ripening to a warm and juicy orange full of promise. Moment turns again and sun slips in need of modesty behind lacy, lazy veil of white again. To look upon from window's warmth, the land exhibits an alien familiarity, so spring-like beneath the strange and heathenish imprisonment of cloudy, mottled glass at half stages.
Nod head and listen: The oddly syncopated rhythms of Lorelei's lilting speech, so close in sound to true artifact but foreign in it's own sweet way, barely discernible to a hurried ear. The way David feels and tumbles sounds about in his mouth like a stream tickles and smooths stones along the riverbed, ba bo buh. The rushing, bubbling stage whisper of the tea pot warming on the stove, the muted gravelly hum of NPR just loud enough for kitchen dwellers to munch upon but not so loud as to disturb the frenzied, high pitch squeals of police and rescue sirens emanating from the boyish depths of the back bedroom where someone is certainly saving another from an imagined catastrophe.