New Moon

No crickets here, but still, there is other music. It's kind of quiet because it's under the skin, and also the roaring 4 X 4s and pickups and SUVs and jeeps rush up the mountain so quickly you can barely hear your thoughts, let alone the soft rushing blood-music, but still, it's there.

Cutting cords to places, for me, can only be partially done. Home, or that place I spent most of my past in, the intimate place that knows parts of me that other places couldn't know, this place I spent time sitting under trees which would be sawed away, telling my secrets, crying, singing, talking to crows, this Home has changed its skins many times, and so have I... the ghost is still there, the events clasped in the cells of always-ness, the voices and blood-rushings still hide in there, so that cord can't be cut anyway. But the land, the great willows, oaks, the great Lake, that sand, the thunder storm waves, crickets, grasses, familiar human voices, and of course, my good friend the foghorn are distant relatives now.

Now I am here in the mountains, and the music has changed and is me, but new, like a new moon shifting waxing waning... new music.