Enga mellom fjella

Sparroes under the pyne.

Sparroes under the pyne

Whitte capt rooves of the busches,
flim-sputter of winggs under snoe,
wee chirpps of the sma braun birds,
liffe hides fram the windds of winter,
maykes no promiss that this be enoe.
Stille, the smille comes to our faces,
britens our eyne; they gloe.

© 2007 Kåre Enga [164.413] 2007-12-07

Written this way on purpose, to make the reader pause and think.

ME:

Heard some Lorena McKennitt, nice and soft. Now there is a song on that I can only hear the bass. Bass gives me headaches. Drums were used historically for communication for a reason. I seek silence and Z's is a tad percussive at the moment.

Called my mother and my aunt. Need to call other family. They don't read my blog so they prolly wanna know I'm still alive.

Read a bit over the last couple days. Didn't work on editing my stuff though. Bad bad me.

My journal is up to page 1427. I started it on December 9th, 2003 while I was living in Teresita, Oklahoma. I will start Book 16 a couple weeks from now on the winter solstice.

PEOPLE IN MONTANA:

I liked most of the folks I met in Missoula. Skylar was helpful as was Zach. Katie smiled a lot. A couple of the baristas at Liquid Planet ... . The folks at the hotel (Brownies) were great, and easy to joke with. Everywhere I went, folks were fairly open and pleasant, even at the University of Montana. I would characterize the people as tolerant, laid back and realistic. I could live among them.

IMAGES and MUSINGS:

I followed some footprints until they wandered off in another direction. I forged my own path. Later, I realized the prints could've been mine, left over from Wednesday ... still, why follow myself when life leads a different direction.

I noticed tracks. Perhaps cat, perhaps rabbit. I recognized the straight line of a bicycle tire and circle made by a child.

A snowman with a hot dog for a nose? Some poor dog will love that! Or maybe a hungry child ...

The ice crusts the snow. Blades of grass stick through like porcupine quills. My feet crunch their way.

The asphalt lies dark and dull here. In Missoula the stones of rust-red and green-grey, a hint of blue ... gave color to the ground beneath a colorless sky.

Kansas: 19 degrees and slippery.

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