Zona

In el grande skeemo of things I like to imagine myself standing on a hill of some sorts looking out over a wind swept prairie. I like the silence in the movement of the tall grasses and the caress of the wind on my face.

Things pop up from the grass like a broke down wagon and a ramshackle shack and they remind me of the past. Symbolistic ideals of moments shone in the day but now abandoned. Things once shiny which are now rust. Smiles once welcoming slipped by into the dust.

A shattered window with the tattered curtains screaming like some great crime was committed that went unpunished and a corroded wood burning stove that fails to heat the room long since gone.

When I get quiet time my soul turns into the far northern towns of Montana with their boarded up churches. No more pews or sermons or songs to raise god's glory to the massive empty sky. Dusty sidewalks and broken fences and drawn curtains to keep the blankness outside.

A post office American flag waves as a reminder of those who went away and who's spirits are held captive by far off marble crosses and European soil.

A road lies waiting to take me away but part of me will always tarry here because I like the quiet.