Stories of The Wild West

Stories of the Wild West (aka the Northeast), living in the Gulch surrounded by hunting cabins and gun fire.

Dark rainy nights. Fireflies flashing just before the rain began.

Dark leafed out trees looming in the near distance. Almost hearing Totoro playing his flute way up high.

On a hill in a nestled spot. With breezes bringing me the ocean, reminding me of the sweetness of childhood summers spent in freedom in the sand.

Birds arguing as the sky slowly brightens in the morning. The little one so loud and persistent. The tinkling melodic song of another somewhere a little farther off.

Another, a morning dove I mistake for an owl. The bird my mother gave my daughter's name to, on account of her sweet cooing sounds.

No sign of another. Sweet and peaceful. Leaving me to sing, sending my voice through my body. Playing, riffing, feeling free.

And sometimes the lack of another's voice hangs heavy.

But I always find a way.

Up here where the law enforcement officers are sheriffs. And the lead man the High Sheriff. Which makes me laugh out loud whenever I say it. And I wonder where I am sometimes.

Tangling with unboundaried firefighters. Long conversation with the High Sheriff. Games of 'he said, he said'.

Learning again and again, this isn't mine. Not my battle.

I don't know what is true. I can't know. I don't need to, it isn't mine.

Shadows of past betrayals and violence descend. Lies and manipulations swirling close.

I reach out my hand whispering, this is not mine, this is not mine, this is not mine.

The rain eases and then begins again.

A very dark night. Like being surrounded by soft silky velvet.