Buddha In December





First day of the last month.

Mist from the Tamar valley rises up to a fat cloud: the Buddha of Sky Water. Out of the mist, the sound of gunshot: the cycle of life and death.

Sun pierces everything, one last time. After this its reach will weaken. We must hold our own warmth.

At the end of my morning shower, turn the dial to a cold setting. From feet to head the nozzle travels and my muscles twitch like river fish and my skin vibrates and my gasps are laughing. Alive and warm.

After breakfast, brew coffee, bitter hot and fierce in strength. Awake. 




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