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Like a train going down the tracks, or a plane overhead, the thunder roared low and loud over the darkened earth and I dare say, there is a god.  A flash of light and we stop mid sentence to see, holding our breath in awe as the landscape flickers for miles. 

                     You can’t walk through a door before it opens. 

End of the summer in Central Park

The waves crash upon the hulking ship — its crisp, crescent tentacles rattling against the steel sides like an impatient child’s drumming fingers on hard wood.  On and on, the waves beat the vessel as it drudges through the sea.  On and on the waves crash, crash, crash.  


A leaf fell slowly and I was reminded of the seasons to come, the people that will change, and the night that will last. 

But here, now, they live among the birch and cast nets for tomorrow’s catch. 

Soon the light will sleep and they too will dwell and await another midsummer’s day.

The Summer Island