winter has come, childhood
Sergei A. Tutunov

From the edge of a broken four-post-bed I am watching fireworks. One hundred and seventy-five years of celebration is rocketing, twinkling, and evaporating behind the silhouttes of pines and weather worn branches in blues-greens and golds. And my favorite firework is the one that is shot upward and then released, zipping in everywhich direction as though it has just stumbled upon the notion of free will. It makes a special whizzing noise and it's movements are unpredictable, fighting the arch form to which others are destined. Yet sadly, despite the momentary freedom, it follows the same fate as us all. We all fall back down to earth at some point. Sometimes gently and sometimes like a sack of elements uncharted. I am watching fireworks from the warmth of an old room that is not my own. And this half hour of time where I can just gaze and be lost in thought is dangerous.

One twinkling blue...

One snappy red. . .