Stay with me now.

How ephemeral everything is don’t you think?

Flitting about like a sparrow on the lawn. Off in an instant of panic and flight. Sight is like that too. I recall making this very observation years ago, perhaps even writing about it in some now lost land fill journal.


Yet familiar.

Returning when you aren’t looking.

Was it always there?

Was I only looking the other way?


Annie and I.

She is about the trip. I’m about the destination.

She watches the movie. I watch the film making.

She is about immersion. I am about exposure.

She reads the story. I read the writing.


I picture the place where it was written. The time. The circumstances. I wonder about the writer. What was his intent? Was there intent at all?

Or was it just an uninvited ephemeral sparrow?

In an instant of panic?

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