It is raining when we get here, no sun and dark threatening. We unload and the dogs are happy. Everything is sluffing off. There is no stress here. The sky is just above us, grey and sad but the river is slick as ice and reflects all the grey which makes for meaning. My lover begins to unpack, shirts, jeans, beautiful things and praise God she remembered my house shoes. And on thanking God, I am grateful I have filled the wood box. Our home is cold. Been abandoned for three weeks and it's obvious, cold in every nook and cranny. I begin the fire, coaxing, pushing, and then it is up and running. Our home begins to warm. I take a walk in the wet wood and when I return dinner is drifting its promise around. We are here. All else drains away and only quiet is here and it is fine. Quiet is fine. And so I rest and know rest is on the docket tomorrow—it is just my lover, two dogs, my latest art project, quiet and a fire that warms. I must tend the warm now but the quiet takes care of itself—it's trending warm and quiet.
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