Pic of the day: Moon over mountain landscape, by Utagawa Hiroshige
All there really is,
The two of us,
And we both know why we’ve come along.
Nothing to explain,
It’s a part of us
To be found within a song.
Rush, Different Strings
A semi-darkened room, a few christmas lights giving just enough light to navigate around the house.
The sound of the radio playing, soft guitars recorded many years ago.
The smell of pine, of cedar, of the holiday spirit wafting through the place.
Wife sitting across the room, face aglow as she types silently writing another article, glasses on top of her head, eyes a half inch from the screen
Cats in repose in their beds, warm and oblivious
I sitting relaxed, trying to learn the lessons the cats teach.
Outside the wind howls, cars screech by, and streetlights shine on people moving quickly trying in vain to avoid the early December rains.
There are a million things going on in a million places.
None of them here.
I get up and go to my wife tell her I love her.
She smiles and tells me she loves me too, reaches out. Fingers touch. Eyes meet. Smile.
Wind blown grass across the moon, by Utagawa Hiroshige
That’s it from here, America. G’night.