out on the ice the breeze takes on a particular murderous and absent minded look. the noises of the town are as far away as the open water. the growing pains of the ice announce the time of day. it is cold and my skates make the wind rise to the occasion to burn my nose and bite my ears and start my eyes into fountains. this is how hannibal felt crossing the alps on the back of an elephant perhaps named cyrus. seeing the ice hang from eyelashes and watching the sun shine hang there in an agony of imploding hydrogen into helium from right here in this vaccuum of a january noon that he didn't turn back is something that i completely understand. out there on the ice there is a feeling that there could be no where more cold and that it isn't going to get colder and that i need to keep moving and that the alps are high but its all downhill from here. down there is roman baths.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment