Cartographer Squirrel

Squirrel. Sunday, June 26, 2016. Valley by the concrete stairs to the house that doesn’t exist anymore. Hit by a car. Timelines of decay. Lost arts, dead languages and the burning of the Library of Alexandria. Does anyone else but me think about these long vanished landmarks? What animal wouldn’t lose its mind listening to the constant undertow of cars and airplanes and motorcycles and lawnmowers whirlpooling around their head? Halfway thru another harsh year. A camera has an intention. Thumbing my nose at the winners. Have I given up on trying to make something pretty? A near death experience. The importance of raising one’s voice when necessary; so much depends upon. Too many subtractions make the equation impossible to solve. They say an animal has no sense of shame, but have you seen someone riding a motorcycle lately? The melancholy of arriving too late to the party. Miss Dickinson regrets her absence. Something else to think about and hold in my mind on the bike ride home. A curse and a tender farewell.