The morning redness over the eastern treeline, veins of marigold and juniper berry blue, as well as also this singular iguana skin green cloud, drifting amiably through the early haze of low-floating clouds, all turtle-like running against the hare of time.

It feels as though spring is tapping its heels lately–signs of life, oddly enough. Winter’s paring outside my cabin window…yes! a nest of stellar jays, their feathers are the bluest of daytime southern skies, navy in streaks like a police man’s coat, eyes an irregular grey ocean water, it soars quickly across the field in front of me, the frosted sky, clouds are technetium ad unrelenting with this still bright light, blinding yellow in our retinas.

And see, this is good.

Do you see trees that are dancing there? Are the people like a rush of fresh river water, collecting in pools and leaving the warmness for the upstream struggle? Do they still stand under the abundance of lighted buildings and displays, tranced, such a center of the world, is it not?

I remember some quite late eves admiring the alleyways of Soho and watching people from the corner of Bleecker and Bowery leaning against the ironworks, their coffee’s steamboating vapors, and me wishing I had a reason for being there among the seismicity.

Do you feel like a phoenix?

The light from your faces in variegates of blush red and deep ember against the blanket of dark night.