Com•po•sure

The cold is retreating.

So I lace up my Montrails and turn to the lake, battling bus fumes and pleas for spare change – the toll one pays for any oasis-bound journey.

But this early-morning jog was intended, first and foremost, to serve as exercise: but it isn’t long before I find myself so lost in my surroundings that I scarcely realize I’m running at all.

As when I entered the park and passed an empty table typically reserved for chess, the sun hitting the surface where countless kings had fallen, the lake going on behind it as if locked in a perpetual stale mate.

I wished for my camera by that point, stopping midway to ingest my environs (Title: “Table for Two”): sidestepping dandelions through the freshly-risen grass, walking toward the lake and marveling – as I so often do – on how strange it is to see the city meet the sanctuary.

And so I walked. And I stood. Staring out over the lake, inspecting the city-sanctioned graffiti before turning once again to my gravel path and heading home.


It was there that I jotted down a few thoughts and retrieved my camera, spending the remainder of the day searching for scenes to fill the gaps between words.

And I turned to iron and steel (the chalk upon my slate), taking picture after picture as if to say:


This is how I feel.



Searching for words when there are none


And biting my tongue for all that remains.