If you take a walk on a college campus, do it on a Saturday in June. It's a ghost town then. Students tucked in, no more dressing in stockings to head down to the Student Union for breakfast, with hair fresh out of rollers, the crick not yet worked out. Graduation has moved online. You wear a cap and gown at midnight and Skype in from Greece and Thailand, or work's bathroom if you transferred in from community college. So go to a college campus on a Saturday in June. Sit in a carefully landscaped courtyard, where your thoughts can settle like the dust on a bookshelf far from the honeysuckle smells of the countryside which are souring now, fermenting, dying. Where cottontopped folks sit in rockers and used to give uninterrupted advice, whether it was 140 characters or *gasp* more. In the courtyard, you'll find, along with your dusty thoughts, a concrete fountain turned off and a piano in waiting. Chiseled in the concrete, evidence of the past in block letters
I ski, teach, parent, write, read, swim, adventure. I get lost in my own mind, chewing on words and images. Sometimes something good comes out.