Towns change; they grow or diminish, but hometowns remain as we left them.
The writing life is a secret life, wither we admit it or not.
Smoke veils the air like souls in drifting suspension, declining the war's insistence everyone move on.
Love is the outlaw's duty.
I write line by line, by the sound and the weight and the music of the words.
As before, there is a great silence, with no end in sight. The writer surrenders, listening.