I stare at the clouds and patches of blue sky above the corridor of pines. Hello and good-bye worlds on my way somewhere else, the place that does not exist.
I review my collection of jigsaw days, looking for today. Monday? No. The day after Wednesday following Tuesday dinner with friends. The guy on the radio says it's the 28th.
And now it's night. Eight hundred miles in 12 hours. The cicada are wonderful here. I could stay with them forever but not in this motel. Not in Jackson. Not in Mississippi.
Language itself is a barrier.
1 comment:
I think the cicada here are louder than usual this year. I think they like the heat or something.
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