Another turn cornered, fall revolves and this Vagabond is mourning red and orange leaves. In the West, trees hiccup their greens to yellow and let them drop after a farewell hands up. The sky splits in two: dark grey underlining sky’s eyes side by lonesome with the sparking yellow sunrise.
Everything is dun, and nothing gets me over needing water. There’s a river three blocks from my door, but it isn’t the same, not touchable. Hard to pause on the pedestrian bridge here when everyone is passing through.
Remember jamming in the Corolla on the way to the Wednesday night meets? Four or five prosers crammed in like strays picked up on the road to the Miramichi, cawing on about this or that plot line. Actually excited about telling a good story.
The long rails run the length of this land, and I imagine you could all walk down to the old bottle depot, and hop the chain link fence to the weather beaten broken old train station. Hail a ghost, come on out to me. Bring 5 to 7 pages and we’ll talk about the presence of metaphor in the everyday slog.
Let’s make a call: Hobos and rangers, lovers and strangers, pack your gumption and bear bells. All great stories begin at the end. So tie them up and haul out with a handful in your pocket. There’s a territory out this way called the Badlands. I wonder if something good would come of it’s exploration. Someone needs to haul out a webcam, we need to talk writers vacation.
All you Merries are tearing up the Coast with your good writerly work.
Now we need horses,
Campeye
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