It is so quiet now, time takes on a different slant. Lily practices the piano with her teacher on FaceTime and asks if he can teach her the song River, by Joni Mitchell. I hear him looking it up on the internet and playing it over the phone, his voice going in and out between measures. He hangs up by accident and calls back, snaps the tempo, says try slowing it down. I walk past the house on the lake with the red lampshade in the window but never see anyone inside. I imagine their lives must be better for some reason, there. The lake is slate gray with rain drops making the pattern of static along the surface, white noise. Small blips, winking eyes, bird calls, ducks. If only I could skate away…
Some days feel lost, days between days. In the early morning, in the dark, let me sit in this room with the clocks and the heater fan blowing and no other thoughts or company, no sound, just me suspended here, free of time and place.
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Categories: microblogging, prose, writing
Bill Pearse 