The Last of the Sunny Days

I am so greatful for this stolen moment of stillness in time. I am sitting stretched out, my back up against the base of an old willow, the sun on my face, looking down from the Cemetary onto the city below. I can see Hood and St. Helens, and all the lightly dusted sugar-topped peaks of the distant Cascades. For the sights of far off mountains beyond mountains alone I bear the afternoons of such crystalline and frigid words of art. I had so much to say, so much crashing at the gates of my brain all morning, and now all I want to do is sit and peer out on the valley at my feet.

Good lord I need to get outside.