What was it I was going to write? Of canoes and mud colored water filled with invisible creatures left to the imagination. Or of clear waters, cold as melted glaciers, with smoothed over light and dark shades of gray stones. Rather than dwelling on the tragedy of Louisiana, focus on the sublime Pacific North West. The PN West is clean, down to the way the air feels as you inhale. The shades of green are plenty and the green moss that grows on the cracks of sidewalks is perfect. My hands are noticeably older than they were fifteen years ago, but they are safe from the worries of the past because they’ve endured the damnedest. They’ve been childish, and they’ve been mean, and most importantly, they’ve been sage.


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