Onion skin

... my hands darkened by the now waning sun, my thoughts transparent as onion skin.

Onion skin

                   deep dry thoughts
waft of tea

The quilted sky lay a soft grey pall over the valley. Long gone the Season of Bluebird Song, the days of trout jumping and fly-hatch mere lingering whiffs like the cloying perfume of lust-filled regrets.

I move sloth-like through the morning, the mountains' razor edge obscured by smoke, the hills too hard to climb in choking stillness.

I sip hot tea in the bakery, my hands darkened by the now waning sun, my thoughts transparent as onion skin.

What had stranded me in this ashy hell? Why had I left the deep dark loam of the tall-grass prairie where my roots slept peacefully through winter, woke up to blue skies and thunder, stretched for water every summer. Coughing, I thirst for a drop of rain.

Amused by the metal taste of my worn out glasses dangling from dry lips, I day-dream to the whirr of the fan hanging from this bakery's ceiling, barely aware of the locals' just-another-Sunday-morning chatter, wonder where I'll go next, when I'll move on.

         new ink
         on onion skin
         drying

© Kåre Enga [169.101] 23 September 2012

Lines... unimportant, WC: ~185
In: "Writings: Closed"