Clouds roll in cold, foreboding gray with brief blue holes. Too much coffee and unfinished tasks manifest as short breaths and chest pains.
Saw an owl hover above a bush lastin a howling wind, not 10 feet from me. Then it dove into the bush after some small brown birds, two of which flew away right past my head. Owls speak to me, and the ancestors within me, their faces so primate-like, their voices strike many chords spinal and dark.
2007, 2 + 7 = 9, the number of revolution, so I'm hoping for some hot ones this year, especially on the bicycles. All measures and limits shall be debunked, with any luck.
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