Untitled piece from the last week or so at Pingree

Well the leaves fall as the summer just fades, with fond memories made, or had, or already remembered. I'd rather it not be over, but in fact it's a coming end, thats always been there, like a marathon's last mile, or a dying grandmother's last smile. The cooling sun blinks before slipping between our world and winter. Whatever waits outside these mountains is a vision worth seeing and in every place its worth being. Alive always. There's a burning last light left wavering over the western peaks and the backdrop to my thoughts burns alongside it. My soul is someplace on those summits, sitting cross legged and carrying the wind in my hair and in my very breaths. This six month stint becomes the center of soulful awareness, a world withdrawn but far from without. While the rest toil, the very time breaking their backs, the weight of what's expected being much too much for many. It's a madness that swarms on city streets, and sits smiling in bank accounts. It carries itself overtly across television screens and unseen through radio waves, an unwelcome whisper, a subliminal something that we need to be without. And so while its happening to hundreds, the harrowing tale of holding certain standards, I'm sitting someplace in the rockies, beneath a bare and beautifully real sky. Of breaking cloud patterns that carry something even greater than color, they carry creation. Across a blue canvas they spell novels no author might write, spin tricks that at many a steady handed magician would marvel, make cities look like scenes of scattered block. I'll sit forever beneath skies that tell stories only to be rivaled by the stars.