Thinking about silence. Or learning that my voice doesn’t always need to fill a room. Somewhere there is always snow falling. Or coyotes fishing. It’s like a dream. If I go too long without looking it might disappear. And then where would I be. I want to keep everyone happy and alive and quiet and soft. It’s like I’m the only one in the museum. Or I’m always listening to conversations that weren’t meant for me. A passive way to hurt. I want to take the afternoons and twist them until the answers come out. I want it to make sense to you in the way it does to me. When I get home I’ll study the birds that live out west. I want to already know them when I get there. I’ve had enough surprises – I want to be a kid again with a hand full of salamanders. Or digging in the warm, wet earth for pill-bugs. Universal memories. We waited hours for the rain to pass and when the lights came on we gazed in awe at our reflections.