small stone (103)

Night. The white noise of generators and turbines underlays the doppler of occasional traffic. I’m tired, eyes burning. Somewhere, a siren.


* * *
I’m in Charlottesville, Virginia, at UVA’s Summer Language Institute’s Tibetan Intensive, by which is meant “intensively intensive.” I’m hoping to get back on a regular writing schedule after the third week (we’re in the middle of our second week right now).

small stone (98) (99) (100)

The train’s timeless moan as we pull out of Springfield. Trestle bridges past islets emerging from fog, greenery receding to gray.
Clapboard, white picket, creaking stairs. 130-year old plumbing. Leaky windows. Rugs over hardwood. Lamp-glow and diaphanous curtains.
Cathedral spires in every neighborhood of Boston. Coupled women towing children in Northampton. The word “fens,” heard after so long.