The wind batters the upper story of my house.  I no longer pretend that sleep nears.  With the low light of the desk lamp casting soft shadows around me, I stare through the gap between the broken slats of the wooden blind in the north window.  I have entwined a small brown blanket with the dangling strings.  I cannot see outside but I can hear the roar of nature.

Now the urgent panicked call of a siren rises in the folds of the buffeting air.  I pace through the room, ghostly images emerging from the noise which penetrates my sanctuary.  Faces surround me, blurry, drifting, receding.

In six days, I will again stand on the edge of the world.  I will raise my arms and let the sea soothe me.  But tonight the fierceness of an early spring leaves me restless and worried.

I did not stretch today.  I rose early and settled the cloak of duty on  my unloosened limbs.  I stumbled through the hours, detached and unaware.   In return sleep makes no pretense of its disdain.  It is nearly the nineteenth day of the twenty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. I wait; and while I wait, the city flees the merciless wind, with roaring motors, and bleating horns.  Above the street, the hour seems suspended; tomorrow cowers beyond the forbidding night.  But I know with some deep certainty, that life continues.

The edge of the world, 03 March 2015.

The edge of the world, 03 March 2015.


This entry is for you, Mr. Senter.

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