I followed him down the trail until we got to the mouth of the mines. The life and energy of the surrounding maples and birches seemed to come to a still and then die as we walked closer, closer. The air was cold and dark and damp and smelt of mold and moths. Delvos stepped into the darkness anyways.
“Well, girl, you coming or aren’t you?”
I could see his yellowed tobacco teeth form into a slimy smile as I stepped out of the sun. It was still inside. The canary chirped.
“This tunnel is just the mouth to over two hundred others exactly like it. Stay close. Last thing I need this month is National Geographic on my *** for losing one of their puppet girls.”
“Delvos, ****. I have two masters degrees.” He rolled his eyes.
“Spare me.” He trotted off around the corner to the left, whistling.
“I survived alone in the jungles of Bolivia alone for two months chasing an Azara’s Spinetail. I climbed the tallest mountain in Nepal shooting Satyr Tragopans along the cliff faces. In Peru I…” Suddenly I felt the weight of the darkness. In my blinding anger I lost track of his lantern. I stopped, my heartbeat picked up, and I tried to remind myself of what I did in Peru.
I followed a Diurnal Peruvian Pygmy-Owl across the gravel tops of the Andes Mountains, no light but the Southern Cross and waning moon above. I am not scared of darkness. I am not scared of darkness.
I stopped to listen. Somewhere in front of me the canary chirped.

When I first got the job in Vermont I couldn’t have been more frustrated. Mining canaries? Never had I ever ‘chased’ a more mundane bird. Nonetheless, when Jack Reynolds sends you on a shoot you don’t say no, so I packed up my camera bag and hoped on the next plane out of Washington.
“His name is John Delvos.” Jack said. He handed me the manila case envelope. “He’s lived in rural Vermont his entire life. Apparently his family bred the canaries for the miners of the Sheldon Quarry since the early twenties. When the accident happened the whole town basically shut down. There were no canaries in the mines the day the gas killed the miners. His mother died in a fire of some sort shortly after. The town blamed the Delvos family and ran them into the woods. His father built a cabin and once his father died, Delvos continued to breed the birds. He ships them to other mining towns across the country now. We want to run a piece about the inhumanity of breeding animals to die so humans won’t.” I stood in silence in front of his deep mahogany desk, suddenly aware of the lack of make-up on my face. He smiled, “You’re leaving on Tuesday.”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t look so smug, Lila. This may not be the most exotic bird you’ve shot but the humanity of this piece has the potential to be a cover story. Get the shots, write the story.”

“Do you understand the darkness now, Ms. Rivers? Your prestigious masters degrees don’t mean **** down here.” Delvos reappeared behind the crack of his match in a side tunnel not twenty yards in front of me. He relit the oily lantern and turned his back without another word. I reluctantly followed deeper into the damp darkness.
“Why were there no canaries in the mine on, you know, that day?” The shadows of the lantern flickered against the iron canary cage chained on his hip and the yellow bird hopped inside.
“I was nine, Ms. Rivers. I didn’t understand much at the time.” We turned right into the next tunnel and our shoes crunched on jagged stones. All the stones were black.
“But surely you understand now?”
The canary chirped.

When I first got to Sheldon and began asking about the location of the Delvos’ cabin you would have thought I was asking where the first gate to hell was located. Mothers would smile and say, “Sorry, Miss, I can’t say,” and hurriedly flock their children in the opposite direction. After two hours of polite refusals I gave up. I spent the rest of the first day photographing the town square. It was quaint; old stone barbershops surrounded by oaks and black squirrels, a western themed whiskey bar, and a few greasy spoon restaurants interspersed in-between. I booked a room in the Walking Horse Motel for Wednesday night, determined to get a good nights sleep and defeat this towns fear of John Delvos tomorrow.
My room was a tiny one bed square with no TV. Surprise, surprise. At least I had my camera and computer to entertain myself. I reached into the side of my camera bag and pulled out my Turkish Golds and Macaw-beak yellow BIC. I stepped out onto the dirt in front of my door and lit up. I looked up and the stars stole all the oxygen surrounding me. They were dancing and smiling above me and I forgot Delvos, Jack, and all of Sheldon except it’s sky. Puffing away, I stepped farther and farther from my door and deeper into the darkness of night. The father into the darkness the more dizzying the stars dancing became.
“Ma’am? Everything okay?”
Startled, I dropped my cigarette on the ground and the ember fell off.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was just, um, the stars…” I snuffed out the orange glow in the dirt with my boot and extended my hand, “Lila Waters, and you are?”
“Ian Benet. I haven’t seen you around here before, Ms. Waters, are you new to town?”
“I’m here for work. I’m a bird photographer and journalist for National Geographic. I’m looking for John Delvos but I’m starting to think he’s going to be harder to track than a Magpie Robin.”
The stars tiptoed in their tiny circles above in the silence. Then, they disappeared with a spark as Ian lit up his wooden pipe. It was a light colored wood, stained with rich brown tobacco and ash. He passed me his matches, smiling.
“What do you want with that old *******? Don’t tell me National Geographic is interested in the Delvos canaries.”
I lit up another stick and took a drag. “Shocking, right?”
“Actually, it’s about time their story is told.” Benet walked to the wooden bench to our left and patted the seat beside him. I walked over. “The Delvos canaries saved hundreds of Sheldonian lives over the years. But the day a crew went into the mines without one, my father came out of the ground as cold as when we put him back into it in his coffin.”
I sat in silence, unsure what to say. “Mr. Benet, I’m so sorry…”
“Please, just Ian. My father was the last Mr. Benet.”
We sat on the wooden bench, heat leaving our bodies to warm the dead wood beneath our legs. I shivered; the stars dance suddenly colder and more violent.
“Delvos canaries are martyrs, Ms. Waters. This whole town indebted to those tiny yellow birds, but nobody cares to remember that anymore.”
“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Delvos and his, erm, martyrs?” The ember of my second cigarette was close to my pinching fingertips.
“Follow me.” Ian stood up and walked to the edge of the woods in front of us. We crunched the cold dust beneath our feet, making me aware of how silent it was. Ian stopped at a large elm and pointed, “See that yellow notch?” Sure enough, there was a notch cut and dyed yellow at his finger’s end. “If you follow true north from this tree into the woods you’ll find this notch about every fifty yards or so. Follow the yellow and it’ll spit you out onto the Delvos property.”
“Thank you, Ian. I really can’t begin to tell you how thankful I am to find out where to find this elusive Mr. Delvos and his canaries.”
“You don’t have to,” he knocked the ash out of his pipe against the tree, “Just do those birds justice in your article. Remember, martyrs. Tell old Delvos Ian Benet sends his regards.” He turned and walked back to the motel and I stood and watched in silence. It was then I realized I hadn’t heard a single bird since I got to Sheldon. The stars dance was manic above me as I walked back to my room and shut the door.

The canary chirped and Delvos stopped.
“This is a good place to break out fast. Sit.”
I sat obediently, squirming around until the rocks formed a more comfortable nest around my bony hips. We left for the mines as the stars were fading in the vermillion Vermont sky this morning and had been walking for what seemed like an eternity. I was definitely ready to eat. He handed me a gallon Ziploc bag from his backpack filled with raisins, nuts, various dried fruits, and a stiff piece of bread. I attacked the food like a raven.
“I was the reason no canaries entered the mines that day, Ms. Waters.” Delvos broke a piece of his bread off and wrapped it around a dried piece of apricot, or maybe apple. I was suddenly aware of my every motion and swallowed, loudly. I crinkled into my Ziploc and crunched on the pecans I dug out, waiting.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I’m not a parrot, Mr. Delvos, I don’t answer expectedly on command. You’ll tell me if you want.” I hurriedly stuffed a fistful of dried pears into my mouth.
Delvos chuckled and my nerves eased, “You’ve got steel in you, Ms. Rivers, I’ll give you that much.”
I nodded and continued cramming pears in my mouth.
“I was only nine. The canaries were my pets, all of them. I hated when Dad would send them into the mines to die for men I couldn’t give two ***** about. It was my birthday and I asked for an afternoon of freedom with my pets and Dad obliged. I was in the aviary with pocketfuls of sunflower-seeds. Whenever I threw a handful into the air above me, the air came to life with flickering yellow brushes and songs of joy. It was the happiest I have ever been, wholly surrounded and protected by my friends. Around twelve thirty that afternoon the Sheriff pulled up, lights ablaze. The blue and red lights stilled my yellow sky to green again and that’s when I heard the shouting. He cuffed my Dad on the hood of the car and Mom was crying and pushing her fists into the sheriff’s chest. I didn’t understand at all. The Sheriff ended up putting Mom in the car too and they all left me in the aviary. I sat there until around four that afternoon before they sent anyone to come get me.”
Delvos took a small bite of his bread and chewed a moment. “No matter how many handfuls of seeds I threw in the air after that, the birds wouldn’t stir. They wouldn’t even sing. I think they knew what was happening.”
I was at a loss for words so of course I blurted, “I didn’t see an aviary at your house…”
Delvos laughed. “Someone burnt down the house I was raised in the next week while we were sleeping. Mom died that night. The whole dark was burning with screams and my yellow canaries were orange and hot against the black sky. That’s the only night I’ve seen black canaries and the only night I’ve heard them scream.”
I swallowed some mixed nuts and they rubbed against my dry throat.
“They never caught the person. A week later Dad took the remainder of the birds and we marched into the woods. We worked for months clearing the land and rebuilding our lives. We spent most of the time in silence, except for the canary cries. When the house was finally built and the birds little coops were as well, Dad finally talked. The only thing he could say was ‘Canaries are not the same as a Phoenix, John. Not the same at all.”
The canary chirped, still only visible by the lanterns flame. Not fully yellow, I realized, here in the mines, but not fully orange either.

When I first walked onto John Delvos’ property on Thursday morning he was scattering feed into the bird coops in the front of his cabin. Everything was made of wood and still wet with the morning’s dew.
“Mr. Delvos?” He spun around, startled, and walked up to me a little too fast.
“Why are you here? Who are you?”
“My name is Lila Waters, sir, I am a photographer and journalist for National Geographic Magazine and we are going to run an article on your canaries.”
“Not interested”
“Please, sir, can I ask you just a few quick questions as take a couple pictures of your, erm, martyrs?”
His eyes narrowed and he walked up to me, studying my face with an intense, glowering gaze. He spit a mouthful of dip onto the ground without breaking eye contact. I shifted my camera bag’s weight to the other shoulder.
“Who told you to call them that?”
“I met Ian Benet last night, he told me how important your birds are to this community, sir. He sends his regards.”
Delvos laughed and motioned for me to follow as he turned his back. “You can take pictures but I have to approve which ones you publish. That’s my rule.”
“Sir, it’s really not up to me, you see, my boss, Jack Reynolds, is one of the CEO’s for the magazine and he...”
“Those are my rules, Ms. Waters.” He turned and picked back up the bucket of seed and began to walk back to the birds. “You want to interview me then we do it in the mine. Be back here at four thirty in the morning.”
“Sir…?”
“Get some sleep, Ms. Waters. You’ll want to be rested for the mine.” He turned, walked up his wooden stairs, and closed the door to his cabin.
I was left alone in the woods and spent the next hour snapping pictures of the little, yellow canaries in their cages. I took a couple pictures of his house and the surrounding trees, packed up my camera and trekked back to my motel.

“You finished yet?” Delvos stood up and the memory of his green and brown wooded homestead fled from my memory as the mine again consumed my consciousness. Dark, quiet, and stagnant. I closed the Ziploc and stuffed the bag, mainly filled with the raisins I sifted through, into my pocket.
Delvos grunted and the canary flapped in its cage as he stood again and, swinging the lantern, rounded another corner. The path we were on began to take a noticeable ***** downward and the moisture on the walls and air multiplied.
The canary chirped.
The lantern flickered against the moist, black stones, sleek and piled in the corners we past. The path stopped ahead at a wall of solid black and brown Earth.
The canary chirped twice.
It smelt of clay and mildew and Delvos said, “Go on, touch it.”
I reached my hand out, camera uselessly hanging like a bat over my shoulder. The rock was cold and hard. It felt dead.
The Canary was flitting its wings in the cage now, chirping every few seconds.
“This is the last tunnel they were digging when the gas under our feet broke free from hell and killed those men.”
Delvos hoisted the lantern above our heads, illuminating the surrounding gloom. All was completely still and even my own vapor seemed to fall out of my mouth and simply die. The canary was dancing a frantic jig, now, similar to the mating dance of the Great Frigate Bird I shot in the Amazon jungle. As I watched the canary and listened to its small wings beat against the cold metal cage I begin to feel dizzy. The bird’s cries had transformed into a scream colder than fire and somehow more fierce.
The ability to fly is what always made me jealous of birds as a child, but as my temple throbbed and the canary danced I realized I was amiss. Screaming, yellow feathers whipped and the entire inside of the cage was instantaneously filled. It was beautiful until the very end. Dizzying, really.
Defeated, the canary sank to the floor, one beaten wing hanging out of the iron bars at a most unnatural angle. Its claws were opening and closing, grasping the tainted cave air, or, perhaps, trying to push it away. Delvos unclipped the cage and sat it on the floor in the space between us, lantern still held swaying above his head. The bird was aflame now, the silent red blood absorbing into the apologetic, yellow feathers. Orange, a living fire. I pulled out my camera as I sat on the ground beside the cage. I took a few shots, the camera’s clicks louder than the feeble chirps sounding out of the canary’s tattered, yellow beak. My head was spinning. Its coal-black eyes reflected the lantern’s flame above. I could see its tiny, red tongue in the bottom of its mouth.
Opening.
Closing.
Opening, wider, too wide, then,
Silence.


I felt dizzy. I remember feeling the darkness surround me; it felt warm.

“I vaguely remember Delvos helping me to my feet, but leaving the mine was a complete haze.” I told the panel back in D.C., “It wasn’t until we had crossed the stream on the way back to the cabin that I began to feel myself again. Even then, I felt like I was living a dream. When we got back to the cabin the sight of the lively yellow canaries in their coops made me cry. Delvos brought me a bottle of water and told me I needed to hit the trail because the sun set early in the winter, so I le

I followed Delvos down the trail until we could see the mouth of the mine. The life and energy of the surrounding birches and sentential pines came to a still and then died as we left the trees shelter behind and walked closer, closer. The air was cold and dark and damp and smelled of mold and moths. Delvos stepped into the darkness anyways.
“Well, girl, you coming or aren’t you?”
I could see his yellowed tobacco teeth form into a smile as I stepped out of the sun. It was still inside. The canary chirped in its cage.
“This tunnel is just the mouth to over two hundred others exactly like it. Stay close. Last thing I need this month is National Geographic on my *** for losing one of their puppet girls.”
“Delvos, ****. I have two masters degrees.” I pulled my mousey hair up into a tight ponytail. “I’ve experienced far more fatal feats than following a canary in a cave.”
He rolled his eyes. “Spare me.” He trotted off around the corner to the left, whistling some Louis Armstrong song.
“I survived alone in the jungles of Bolivia alone for two months chasing an Azara’s Spinetail. I climbed the tallest mountain in Nepal shooting Satyr Tragopans along the cliff faces. In Peru I…” Suddenly I felt the weight of the darkness. I lost track of his lantern completely. I stopped, my heartbeat picked up, and I tried to remind myself of what I had done in Peru. The mine was quiet and cold. I wiped my clammy, calloused hands on my trail pants and took a depth breath.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. This is nothing. I followed a Diurnal Peruvian Pygmy-Owl across the gravel tops of the Andes Mountains, no light but the Southern Cross and waning moon above. I am not scared of darkness. I am not scared of darkness.
I stopped to listen. Behind me I could hear the wind cooing at the mouth of the mine.
Taunting? No. Reminding me to go forward. Into the darkness.
I shifted my Nikon camera off my shoulder and raised the viewfinder to my eyes, sliding the lens cap into my vest pocket. This routine motion, by now, had become as fluid as walking. I stared readily through the dark black square until I saw reflections from the little red light on top that blinked, telling me the flash was charged. I snapped my finger down and white light filled the void in front of me. Then heavy dark returned. I blinked my eyes attempting to rid the memories of the flash etched, red, onto my retina. I clicked my short fingernails through buttons until the photo I took filled the camera screen. I learned early on that having short fingernails meant more precise control with the camera buttons. I zoomed in on the picture and scrolled to get my bearings of exactly what lay ahead in the narrow mine passageway. As I scrolled to the right I saw Delvos’ boot poking around the tunnel that forked to the left.
Gottcha.
I packed up the camera, licked my drying lips, and stepped confidently into the darkness.

When I first got the assignment in Vermont I couldn’t have been more frustrated. Mining canaries? Never had I ever ‘chased’ a more mundane bird. Nonetheless, when Jack Reynolds sends you on a shoot you don’t say no, so I packed up my camera bag and hoped on the next plane out of Washington.
“His name is John Delvos.” Jack had said as he handed me the manila case envelope. He smiled, “You’re leaving on Tuesday.”
“Yes sir.”
“Don’t look so smug, Lila. This may not be the most exotic bird you’ve shot but the humanity of this piece has the potential to be a cover story. Get the shots, write the story.”
I opened the envelope and read the assignment details in the comfort of my old pajamas back at my apartment later that night.
John Delvos has lived in rural Vermont his entire life. His family bred the canaries for the miners of the Sheldon Quarry since the early twenties. When “the accident” happened the whole town shut down and the mines never reopened. . There were no canaries in the mines the day the gas killed the miners. The town blamed the Delvos family and ran them into the woods. His mother died in a fire of some sort shortly before Delvos and his father retreated into the Vermont woods. His father built a cabin and once his father died, Delvos continued to breed the birds. He currently ships them to other mining towns across the country. The question of the inhumanity of breeding canaries for the sole purpose of dying in the mines so humans don’t has always been controversial. Find out Delvos’ story and opinions on the matter. Good luck, Lila.
I sighed, accepting my dull assignment and slipped into an apathetic sleep.


After stumbling through the passageway while keeping one hand on the wall to the left, I found the tunnel the picture had revealed Delvos to be luring in. Delvos reappeared behind the crack of his match in a side tunnel not twenty yards in front of me
“Do you understand the darkness now, Ms. Rivers?” He relit the oily lantern and picked back up the canary cage. “Your prestigious masters degrees don’t mean **** down here.”. He turned his back without another word. I followed deeper into the damp darkness.
“Why were there no canaries in the mine on, you know, that day?” The shadows of the lantern flickered against the iron canary cage chained on his hip and the yellow bird hopped inside.
“I was nine, Ms. Rivers. I didn’t understand much at the time.” We turned right into the next tunnel and our shoes crunched on jagged stones. All the stones were black.
“But surely you understand now?”
The canary chirped.

When I first got to Sheldon and began asking about the location of the Delvos’ cabin you would have thought I was asking where the first gate to hell was located. Mothers would smile and say, “Sorry, Miss, I can’t say,” then hurriedly flock their children in the opposite direction. After two hours of polite refusals I gave up. I spent the rest of the first day photographing the town square. It was quaint; old stone barbershops surrounded by oaks and black squirrels, a western-themed whiskey bar, and a few greasy spoon restaurants. I booked a room in the Walking Horse Motel for Wednesday night, determined to get a good night’s sleep and defeat this town’s fear of John Delvos the following day.
My room was a tiny one bed square with no TV. Surprise, surprise. At least I had my camera and computer to entertain myself. I reached into the side of my camera bag, pulled out my Turkish Golds and Macaw-beak yellow BIC, and stepped out onto the dirt in front of my motel door and lit up. The stars above stole all the oxygen surrounding me. They were dancing and smiling above me and I forgot Delvos, Jack, and all of Sheldon except its sky. Puffing away, I stepped farther and farther from my door and deeper into the darkness of Vermont night. The father into the darkness the more dizzying the star’s dancing became.
“Ma’am? Everything okay?”
Startled, I dropped my cigarette on the ground and the ember fell off. “I’m sorry, sir. I was just, um, the stars…” I snuffed out the orange glow in the dirt with my boot and extended my hand, “Lila Rivers, and you are?”
“Ian Benet. I haven’t seen you around here before, Ms. Rivers. Are you new to town?” He traced his fingers over a thick, graying mustache as he stared at me.
“I’m here for work. I’m a bird photographer and journalist for National Geographic. I’m looking for John Delvos but I’m starting to think he’s going to be harder to track than a Magpie Robin.”
Ian smiled awkwardly, shivered, then began to fumble with his thick jacket’s zipper. I looked up at the night sky and watched the stars as they tiptoed their tiny circles in the pregnant silence. Then, they dimmed in the flick of a spark as Ian lit up his wooden pipe. It was a light-colored wood, stained with rich brown tobacco and ash. He passed me his matches, smiling.
“So, Delvos, eh?” He puffed out a cloud of leather smelling smoke toward the stars. “What do you want with that old *******? Don’t tell me National Geographic is interested in the Delvos canaries.”
I lit up another stick and took a drag. “Shocking, right?”
“Actually, it’s about time their story is told.” Benet walked to the wooden bench to our left and patted the seat beside him. I walked over. “The Delvos canaries saved hundreds of Sheldonian lives over the years. But the day a crew went into the mines without one, my father came out of the ground as cold as when we put him back into it in his coffin.”
I sat in silence, unsure what to say. “Mr. Benet, I’m so sorry…”
“Please, just Ian. My father was the last Mr. Benet.”
We sat on the wooden bench, heat leaving our bodies to warm the dead wood beneath our legs. I shivered; the star’s dance suddenly colder and more violent.
“Delvos canaries are martyrs, Ms. Rivers. This whole town indebted to those tiny yellow birds, but nobody cares to remember that anymore.”
“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Delvos and his, erm, martyrs?” The ember of my second cigarette was close to my pinching fingertips.
“Follow me.” Ian stood up and walked to the edge of the woods in front of us. We crunched the dead pine needles beneath our feet, making me aware of how silent it was. Ian stopped at a large elm and pointed. “See that yellow notch?” he asked. Sure enough, there was a notch cut and dyed yellow at his finger’s end. “If you follow true north from this tree into the woods you’ll find this notch about every fifty yards or so. Follow the yellow and it’ll spit you out onto the Delvos property.”
“Thank you, Ian. I really can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.
“You don’t have to.” He knocked the ash out of his pipe against the tree. “Just do those birds justice in your article. Remember, martyrs. Tell old Delvos Ian Benet sends his regards.” He turned and walked back to the motel and I stood and watched in silence. It was then I realized I hadn’t heard a single bird since I got to Sheldon. The star’s dance was manic above me as I walked back to my room and shut the door.

The canary’s wings and Delvos stopped. “This is a good place to break our fast. Sit.”
I sat obediently, squirming around until the rocks formed a more comfortable nest around my bony hips. We had left for the mines as the stars were fading in the vermillion Vermont sky that morning and had been walking for what seemed like an eternity. I was definitely ready to eat. He handed me a gallon Ziploc bag from his backpack filled with raisins, nuts, various dried fruits, and a stiff piece of bread. I attacked the food like a raven.
“I was the reason no canaries entered the mines that day, Ms. Rivers.”
Delvos broke a piece of his bread off and wrapped it around a dried piece of apricot, or maybe apple. I was suddenly aware of my every motion and swallowed, loudly. I crinkled into my Ziploc and crunched on the pecans I dug out, waiting.
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“I’m not a parrot, Mr. Delvos, I don’t answer expectedly on command. You’ll tell me if you want.” I stuffed a fistful of dried pears into my mouth.
Delvos chuckled and my nerves eased. “You’ve got steel in you, Ms. Rivers. I’ll give you that much.”
I nodded and continued cramming pears in my mouth.
“I was only nine. The canaries were my pets, all of them. I hated when Dad would send them into the mines to die for men I couldn’t give two ***** about. It was my birthday and I asked for an afternoon of freedom with my pets and Dad obliged. I was in the aviary with pocketfuls of sunflower-seeds. Whenever I threw a handful into the air above me, the air came to life with wings slashing yellow brushes and cawing songs of joy. It was the happiest I have ever been, wholly surrounded and protected by my friends. Around twelve thirty that afternoon the Sheriff pulled up, lights ablaze. The blue and red lights stilled my yellow sky to green again and that’s when I heard the shouting. He cuffed my Dad on the hood of the car and Mom was crying and pushing her fists into the sheriff’s chest. I didn’t understand at all. The Sheriff ended up putting Mom in the car too and they all left me in the aviary. I sat there until around four that afternoon before they sent anyone to come get me.”
Delvos took a small bite of his bread and chewed a moment. “No matter how many handfuls of seeds I threw in the air after that, the birds wouldn’t stir. They wouldn’t even sing. I think they knew what was happening.”
I was at a loss for words so and I blurted, “I didn’t see an aviary at your house…”
Delvos laughed. “Someone burnt down the house I was raised in the next week while we were sleeping. Mom died that night. The whole dark was burning with screams and my yellow canaries were orange and hot against the black sky. That’s the only night I’ve seen black canaries and the only night I’ve heard them scream.”
I swallowed some mixed nuts and they rubbed against my dry throat.
“They never caught the person. A week later Dad took the remainder of the birds and we marched into the woods. We worked for months clearing the land and rebuilding our lives. We spent most of the time in silence, except for the canary cries. When the house was finally built and the bird’s little coops were as well, Dad finally talked. The only thing he could say was “Canaries are not the same as a Phoenix, John. Not the same at all.”
We sat in silence and I found myself watching the canary flit about in its cage, still only visible by the lanterns flame. Not fully yellow, I realized, here in the mines but not fully orange either.

When I first walked onto John Delvos’ property on Thursday morning he was scattering feed into the bird coops in the front of his cabin. Everything was made of wood and still wet with the morning’s dew.
“Mr. Delvos?”
He spun around, startled, and walked up to me a little too fast. “Why are you here? Who are you?”
“My name is Lila Rivers, sir, I am a photographer and journalist for National Geographic Magazine and we are going to run an article on your canaries.”
“Not interested.”
“Please, sir, can I ask you just a few quick questions as take a couple pictures of your, erm, martyrs?”
His eyes narrowed and he walked up to me, studying my face with an intense, glowering gaze. He spit a mouthful of dip onto the ground without breaking eye contact. I shifted my camera bag’s weight to the other shoulder.
“Who told you to call them that?”
“I met Ian Benet last night, he told me how important your birds are to this community, sir. He sends his regards.”
Delvos laughed and motioned for me to follow as he turned his back. “You can take pictures but I have to approve which ones you publish. That’s my rule.”
“Sir, it’s really not up to me, you see, my boss, Jack Reynolds, is one of the editors for the magazine and he...”
“Those are my rules, Ms. Rivers.” He turned and picked back up the bucket of seed and began to walk back to the birds. “You want to interview me then we do it in the mine. Be back here at four thirty in the morning.”
“Sir…?”
“Get some sleep, Ms. Rivers. You’ll want to be rested for the mine.” He turned, walked up his wooden stairs, and closed the door to his cabin.
I was left alone in the woods and spent the next hour snapping pictures of the canaries in their cages. I took a couple pictures of his house and the surrounding trees, packed up my camera and trekked back to my motel.

“You finished yet?” Delvos stood up. The mine was dark, quiet, and stagnant. I closed the Ziploc and stuffed the bag, mainly filled with the raisins I had sifted through, into my pocket.
Delvos grunted and the canary flapped in its cage as he stood again and, swinging the lantern, rounded another corner. The path we were on began to take a noticeable ***** downward and the moisture on the walls and air multiplied.  
The lantern flickered against the moist, black stones, sleek and piled in the corners we past. The path stopped ahead at a wall of solid black and brown Earth.
The canary chirped twice.
It smelled of clay and mildew and Delvos said, “Go on, touch it.”
I reached my hand out, camera uselessly hanging like a bat over my shoulder. The rock was cold and hard. It felt dead.
The canary was fluttering its wings in the cage now, chirping every few seconds.
“This is the last tunnel they were digging when the gas under our feet broke free from hell and killed those men.”
Delvos hoisted the lantern above our heads, illuminatin

And as you so lightly traced my skin,
All I felt was your longing for the flame that once so relentlessly licked your fingers.
That passion that had ignited your lust,
was now smokey embers of a dying fire too damp to ever be relit.

The sunset reflecting onto the clouds
Fading into an empty darkness
Only to be relit when the moon rises

Showing me the nature of life
A colorful masterpiece;
Only for a moment is it dark
Until the sun
Finds another way to shine its light in the sky

a relit cigarette never taste the same
and that's all I'll preach
on rekindling old flames.

This is just so all of you know,
I appreciate all of the support you’ve shown,
Helped me regain a positivity, helped me to grow,
Relit the fire inside me, allowing me to once again glow.

The caring nature you all completely have,
I know you’re all genuine; it’s not just a job to get cash,
You really want to help, give us the skills so we know what to do if we crash,
Help us see the good inside ourselves, the true facts.

So thank you again for everything you’ve done,
Because now I can hold my head up, I can see the sun,
You helped me unlock a lot of my skeletons,
Once again I can start to enjoy life and have fun.

Keep up the good work, especially when it’s tough,
Even if you only manage a little, it will be enough,
To help us deal or unravel some of our stuff,
Just a smile can help when we’re feeling rough.

So I want you all to give yourself a hug and pat on the back,
Maybe one day we will meet again, (minus the hat)
When my life is going somewhere, back on track,
Thank you all, from the hard nut to crack, insomniac.

© Emma Johnson

when a candle burns the wax melts into itself. then the flame gets blown out and the wax hardens; then the flame gets relit and the wax warms up again, tenets and takes more of the candle with it everytime. the candle does this until the wick is gone and the candle is no more. so do not let your burdens or your past be candle wax to you because it will eat you alive until you are no more. instead, when your flame is lit, blow out the match and glow on your own.

You never realize how
Dark the night is
Until some one snuffs out
Your candle.

And you have to
***** around in the dark
For some matches.

You swear you put them
Next to the coffee machine,
But it doesn't matter now.

That flame
Can not
Be relit,
No matter how hard
You try.

You must find
Another source of light,
Something more reliable.

A flashlight perhaps.

But one day
That will be snuffed out too.
Not even batteries
Last
Forever.

We were a trio.
Gone together,
mentally alone.

90's alternative had been playing for maybe
three-quarters of an hour, and at this point
we were all mostly toasted.
A shot of beer a minute.

Talking ****, shuffling the deck.

Nick laughed, Luke mocked.
I cheered them both on.
In that moment we all lived in the golden light
of youthful ignorance and concrete friendship
that can only be fully grasped by a drunken trio of guys
in their mid-twenties at 2:00 AM on an idle Thursday night.

We all cracked fresh cold ones and lit up fresh cigs,
and I raised the burning tobacco in a toast:
"To friendship!"

Luke matched my pose, left arm outstretched.
We caught each other's eyes, and without missing a beat
his right hand plunged the cherry into his left forearm.
I looked down and saw myself doing the same,
yet felt no pain. We stayed that way until our embers died,
and relit the remaining smoke off of a shared flame.
Nick never matched our level of commitment,
I doubt he even bears a scar these days.
My scar still itches from time to time.
I wonder if Lukes does, too.

Eventually
I started seeing tunnels
and soon, gravity took me.
Horizontality was my fate.
I was the first to fall,
the first to succumb to gratuitous consumption.

...

Birds chirping, deafening in the late morning.
The angry sun cast slotted beams
through the still-lingering twines
of cigarette smoke from the night before.
I watched it slowly twirl and stir through slitted eyelids.
My eyes hurt, and my neck creaked as I looked around.
Nick passed out beside me, I figured Luke got the top bunk.
In the daylight I could always see the apartment for what
it really was.
An escape.
One room, bunk beds, and abject emotional destitution.
I rolled over on to the floor and steadied myself with
closed eyes and a palm planted on the ***** carpets.
My phone was on the desk in the corner, I grabbed it
and headed towards the bathroom.

**** cascaded, and through the open bathroom window
I could hear it echo off of the buildings lining New Street.
My hand floated up to the back of my head
and picked at something. Something hardened.
There was a thick layer of something
on the back of my scalp,
down the back of my neck.
It felt like wax.
We were burning a candle last night.
They must've dumped it on me
since I was the first to fall asleep.
I quit picking when I was struck by a sharp pain in my arm,
my left forearm.
A bit of my hair had probed an open wound,
a round burn mark.
I sat down on the floor and remembered for a bit.

My phone turned on with a melodic series of beeps,
it had been awhile since I turned it on.

One new voicemail.

I dialed the number 1 while picking wax from my hair,
put my passcode in,
and listened.

Mom called me last night, she was crying.
I was used to that sound at this point.
"Otis wont get up, I think he's dying Justin."
A brief pause.
"Please come home."






I'm sorry Otis. I loved you.
More than a dog, you were a canine brother.
Raised alongside me.
Raised by the same parents.

I didn't come home,
at least,
not then.

The darkness had settled as we followed our headlights and looked for a portable sign indicating where we were to turn off the highway and make our way to the Winters’ home.  January, snow on the ground, the coldness of news that the pancreatic cancer was not going away in spite of months of congregational and private prayers, and here we were, making our way to the house to pray.

We arrived and parked along a long gravel lane and then joined a steady line of people walking slowly toward the house – little children with parents, older couples, a few teens. We moved slowly, not sure what to expect, heavy with our thoughts, not speaking. Ahead of us stood the pastor and the house. Arriving, we grasped thin vigil candles and passed the flame from one silent person to the next.  A bit uncertain, we moved to positions around the darkened house, aware that a child was looking out at us into the dark.  Our candles flickered uncertainly in the chill air, and we shielded them with our gloved hands and waited.  

One by one individuals began to pray quietly.  Some spoke sentence long prayers and went silent while others pled tearfully with God for stricken mother, the husband, the little children inside the silent house.  The breeze snuffed flames from the less vigilant, and the line around the house darkened.  We waited in the night. Above us stars shone and the eastern horizon glowed over Minneapolis.  Someone began to whistle an old hymn, “Day by Day, and with each passing moment, strength I find to meet my sorrows here….”  The murmur softened.

The sound of singing drew us back to the front of the house where the pastor was beckoning people to join him in a huddle, to stand with him.  “I feel like a choir leader,” he said, “Come stand with me.”  We moved in next to him.  Those with still burning candles shared the flames, and the entire group was again glowing with candlelight.  We prayed as a group, individuals speaking their hearts to God and the open sky and each other. Prayers moved from individual requests to collective behests – prayers for increased faith in desperate times, prayers for peace and comfort for the family, prayers for steadfast love for God and each other.  Tears wet cold cheeks as people hugged.  

Something good came from that night under the silent sky.  I’m not sure I can put it into words, and I don’t know what God will do with Laurie W, but I am at peace today, after months of unrest and wavering faith.  Under the sky and standing in the snow next to my wife, I thought about those candles and how symbolic their flickering and going out and reigniting is.  When I was standing in the circle around the house, my flame died several times, and thankfully, my wife’s flame reignited mine.  We walked back to the group with candles burning and were able to pass the fire on to others until we all stood in firelight. Alone, any one of us would have been in the dark and out in the cold.  Together, we relit each other’s fires and were warmed by each other’s voices as we called out to God and sang.

i know how hard it is for you to get to the deep stuff. i know how long it takes you to admit how you felt like burning when your first dog died and how admitting that makes you feel like embers relit because she isnt the first youve said these things to. how long does it take for you to uncover your emotions? i know you dont feel like you can trust everyone to tell these things to. you think, where is their shovel? how do you dig up these things you havent let out of the coffin in so long? how deep do you go before you are buried too? its okay, you will admit these things over and over and your body will always feel warm when you do, a house that survives a fire always seems a bit smokey. i know you dont like to get to the deep stuff, i know murky water makes you nervous. i know you'd much rather float along the surface of this something new until you hit land again but we both know the ocean runs deep and you are fascinated by it. let yourself get wrapped in her, in how she smells so sweet and how youve never been kissed like that before. its okay to want something new its okay to let your feelings go its okay, perfectly okay to move on, to dig up the coffin of what you buried just dont let yourself fall in the grave. they are not all like him and it is okay to admit to yourself that you like this something new. its okay to get to the deep stuff.

Lorsque le grand Byron allait quitter Ravenne,
Et chercher sur les mers quelque plage lointaine
Où finir en héros son immortel ennui,
Comme il était assis aux pieds de sa maîtresse,
Pâle, et déjà tourné du côté de la Grèce,
Celle qu'il appelait alors sa Guiccioli
Ouvrit un soir un livre où l'on parlait de lui.

Avez-vous de ce temps conservé la mémoire,
Lamartine, et ces vers au prince des proscrits,
Vous souvient-il encor qui les avait écrits ?
Vous étiez jeune alors, vous, notre chère gloire.
Vous veniez d'essayer pour la première fois
Ce beau luth éploré qui vibre sous vos doigts.
La Muse que le ciel vous avait fiancée
Sur votre front rêveur cherchait votre pensée,
Vierge craintive encore, amante des lauriers.
Vous ne connaissiez pas, noble fils de la France,
Vous ne connaissiez pas, sinon par sa souffrance,
Ce sublime orgueilleux à qui vous écriviez.
De quel droit osiez-vous l'aborder et le plaindre ?
Quel aigle, Ganymède, à ce Dieu vous portait ?
Pressentiez-vous qu'un jour vous le pourriez atteindre,
Celui qui de si haut alors vous écoutait ?
Non, vous aviez vingt ans, et le coeur vous battait
Vous aviez lu Lara, Manfred et le Corsaire,
Et vous aviez écrit sans essuyer vos pleurs ;
Le souffle de Byron vous soulevait de terre,
Et vous alliez à lui, porté par ses douleurs.
Vous appeliez de **** cette âme désolée ;
Pour grand qu'il vous parût, vous le sentiez ami
Et, comme le torrent dans la verte vallée,
L'écho de son génie en vous avait gémi.
Et lui, lui dont l'Europe, encore toute armée,
Écoutait en tremblant les sauvages concerts ;
Lui qui depuis dix ans fuyait sa renommée,
Et de sa solitude emplissait l'univers ;
Lui, le grand inspiré de la Mélancolie,
Qui, las d'être envié, se changeait en martyr ;
Lui, le dernier amant de la pauvre Italie,
Pour son dernier exil s'apprêtant à partir ;
Lui qui, rassasié de la grandeur humaine,
Comme un cygne à son chant sentant sa mort prochaine,
Sur terre autour de lui cherchait pour qui mourir...
Il écouta ces vers que lisait sa maîtresse,
Ce doux salut lointain d'un jeune homme inconnu.
Je ne sais si du style il comprit la richesse ;
Il laissa dans ses yeux sourire sa tristesse :
Ce qui venait du coeur lui fut le bienvenu.

Poète, maintenant que ta muse fidèle,
Par ton pudique amour sûre d'être immortelle,
De la verveine en fleur t'a couronné le front,
À ton tour, reçois-moi comme le grand Byron.
De t'égaler jamais je n'ai pas l'espérance ;
Ce que tu tiens du ciel, nul ne me l'a promis,
Mais de ton sort au mien plus grande est la distance,
Meilleur en sera Dieu qui peut nous rendre amis.
Je ne t'adresse pas d'inutiles louanges,
Et je ne songe point que tu me répondras ;
Pour être proposés, ces illustres échanges
Veulent être signés d'un nom que je n'ai pas.
J'ai cru pendant longtemps que j'étais las du monde ;
J'ai dit que je niais, croyant avoir douté,
Et j'ai pris, devant moi, pour une nuit profonde
Mon ombre qui passait pleine de vanité.
Poète, je t'écris pour te dire que j'aime,
Qu'un rayon du soleil est tombé jusqu'à moi,
Et qu'en un jour de deuil et de douleur suprême
Les pleurs que je versais m'ont fait penser à toi.

Qui de nous, Lamartine, et de notre jeunesse,
Ne sait par coeur ce chant, des amants adoré,
Qu'un soir, au bord d'un lac, tu nous as soupiré ?
Qui n'a lu mille fois, qui ne relit sans cesse
Ces vers mystérieux où parle ta maîtresse,
Et qui n'a sangloté sur ces divins sanglots,
Profonds comme le ciel et purs comme les flots ?
Hélas ! ces longs regrets des amours mensongères,
Ces ruines du temps qu'on trouve à chaque pas,
Ces sillons infinis de lueurs éphémères,
Qui peut se dire un homme et ne les connaît pas ?
Quiconque aima jamais porte une cicatrice ;
Chacun l'a dans le sein, toujours prête à s'ouvrir ;
Chacun la garde en soi, cher et secret supplice,
Et mieux il est frappé, moins il en veut guérir.
Te le dirai-je, à toi, chantre de la souffrance,
Que ton glorieux mal, je l'ai souffert aussi ?
Qu'un instant, comme toi, devant ce ciel immense,
J'ai serré dans mes bras la vie et l'espérance,
Et qu'ainsi que le tien, mon rêve s'est enfui ?
Te dirai-je qu'un soir, dans la brise embaumée,
Endormi, comme toi, dans la paix du bonheur,
Aux célestes accents d'une voix bien-aimée,
J'ai cru sentir le temps s'arrêter dans mon coeur ?
Te dirai-je qu'un soir, resté seul sur la terre,
Dévoré, comme toi, d'un affreux souvenir,
Je me suis étonné de ma propre misère,
Et de ce qu'un enfant peut souffrir sans mourir ?
Ah ! ce que j'ai senti dans cet instant terrible,
Oserai-je m'en plaindre et te le raconter ?
Comment exprimerai-je une peine indicible ?
Après toi, devant toi, puis-je encor le tenter ?
Oui, de ce jour fatal, plein d'horreur et de charmes,
Je veux fidèlement te faire le récit ;
Ce ne sont pas des chants, ce ne sont pas des larmes,
Et je ne te dirai que ce que Dieu m'a dit.

Lorsque le laboureur, regagnant sa chaumière,
Trouve le soir son champ rasé par le tonnerre,
Il croit d'abord qu'un rêve a fasciné ses yeux,
Et, doutant de lui-même, interroge les cieux.
Partout la nuit est sombre, et la terre enflammée.
Il cherche autour de lui la place accoutumée
Où sa femme l'attend sur le seuil entr'ouvert ;
Il voit un peu de cendre au milieu d'un désert.
Ses enfants demi-nus sortent de la bruyère,
Et viennent lui conter comme leur pauvre mère
Est morte sous le chaume avec des cris affreux ;
Mais maintenant au **** tout est silencieux.
Le misérable écoute et comprend sa ruine.
Il serre, désolé, ses fils sur sa poitrine ;
Il ne lui reste plus, s'il ne tend pas la main,
Que la faim pour ce soir et la mort pour demain.
Pas un sanglot ne sort de sa gorge oppressée ;
Muet et chancelant, sans force et sans pensée,
Il s'assoit à l'écart, les yeux sur l'horizon,
Et regardant s'enfuir sa moisson consumée,
Dans les noirs tourbillons de l'épaisse fumée
L'ivresse du malheur emporte sa raison.

Tel, lorsque abandonné d'une infidèle amante,
Pour la première fois j'ai connu la douleur,
Transpercé tout à coup d'une flèche sanglante,
Seul je me suis assis dans la nuit de mon coeur.
Ce n'était pas au bord d'un lac au flot limpide,
Ni sur l'herbe fleurie au penchant des coteaux ;
Mes yeux noyés de pleurs ne voyaient que le vide,
Mes sanglots étouffés n'éveillaient point d'échos.
C'était dans une rue obscure et tortueuse
De cet immense égout qu'on appelle Paris :
Autour de moi criait cette foule railleuse
Qui des infortunés n'entend jamais les cris.
Sur le pavé noirci les blafardes lanternes
Versaient un jour douteux plus triste que la nuit,
Et, suivant au hasard ces feux vagues et ternes,
L'homme passait dans l'ombre, allant où va le bruit.
Partout retentissait comme une joie étrange ;
C'était en février, au temps du carnaval.
Les masques avinés, se croisant dans la fange,
S'accostaient d'une injure ou d'un refrain banal.
Dans un carrosse ouvert une troupe entassée
Paraissait par moments sous le ciel pluvieux,
Puis se perdait au **** dans la ville insensée,
Hurlant un hymne impur sous la résine en feux.
Cependant des vieillards, des enfants et des femmes
Se barbouillaient de lie au fond des cabarets,
Tandis que de la nuit les prêtresses infâmes
Promenaient çà et là leurs spectres inquiets.
On eût dit un portrait de la débauche antique,
Un de ces soirs fameux, chers au peuple romain,
Où des temples secrets la Vénus impudique
Sortait échevelée, une torche à la main.
Dieu juste ! pleurer seul par une nuit pareille !
Ô mon unique amour ! que vous avais-je fait ?
Vous m'aviez pu quitter, vous qui juriez la veille
Que vous étiez ma vie et que Dieu le savait ?
Ah ! toi, le savais-tu, froide et cruelle amie,
Qu'à travers cette honte et cette obscurité
J'étais là, regardant de ta lampe chérie,
Comme une étoile au ciel, la tremblante clarté ?
Non, tu n'en savais rien, je n'ai pas vu ton ombre,
Ta main n'est pas venue entr'ouvrir ton rideau.
Tu n'as pas regardé si le ciel était sombre ;
Tu ne m'as pas cherché dans cet affreux tombeau !

Lamartine, c'est là, dans cette rue obscure,
Assis sur une borne, au fond d'un carrefour,
Les deux mains sur mon coeur, et serrant ma blessure,
Et sentant y saigner un invincible amour ;
C'est là, dans cette nuit d'horreur et de détresse,
Au milieu des transports d'un peuple furieux
Qui semblait en passant crier à ma jeunesse,
« Toi qui pleures ce soir, n'as-tu pas ri comme eux ? »
C'est là, devant ce mur, où j'ai frappé ma tête,
Où j'ai posé deux fois le fer sur mon sein nu ;
C'est là, le croiras-tu ? chaste et noble poète,
Que de tes chants divins je me suis souvenu.
Ô toi qui sais aimer, réponds, amant d'Elvire,
Comprends-tu que l'on parte et qu'on se dise adieu ?
Comprends-tu que ce mot la main puisse l'écrire,
Et le coeur le signer, et les lèvres le dire,
Les lèvres, qu'un baiser vient d'unir devant Dieu ?
Comprends-tu qu'un lien qui, dans l'âme immortelle,
Chaque jour plus profond, se forme à notre insu ;
Qui déracine en nous la volonté rebelle,
Et nous attache au coeur son merveilleux tissu ;
Un lien tout-puissant dont les noeuds et la trame
Sont plus durs que la roche et que les diamants ;
Qui ne craint ni le temps, ni le fer, ni la flamme,
Ni la mort elle-même, et qui fait des amants
Jusque dans le tombeau s'aimer les ossements ;
Comprends-tu que dix ans ce lien nous enlace,
Qu'il ne fasse dix ans qu'un seul être de deux,
Puis tout à coup se brise, et, perdu dans l'espace,
Nous laisse épouvantés d'avoir cru vivre heureux ?
Ô poète ! il est dur que la nature humaine,
Qui marche à pas comptés vers une fin certaine,
Doive encor s'y traîner en portant une croix,
Et qu'il faille ici-bas mourir plus d'une fois.
Car de quel autre nom peut s'appeler sur terre
Cette nécessité de changer de misère,
Qui nous fait, jour et nuit, tout prendre et tout quitter.
Si bien que notre temps se passe à convoiter ?
Ne sont-ce pas des morts, et des morts effroyables,
Que tant de changements d'êtres si variables,
Qui se disent toujours fatigués d'espérer,
Et qui sont toujours prêts à se transfigurer ?
Quel tombeau que le coeur, et quelle solitude !
Comment la passion devient-elle habitude,
Et comment se fait-il que, sans y trébucher,
Sur ses propres débris l'homme puisse marcher ?
Il y marche pourtant ; c'est Dieu qui l'y convie.
Il va semant partout et prodiguant sa vie :
Désir, crainte, colère, inquiétude, ennui,
Tout passe et disparaît, tout est fantôme en lui.
Son misérable coeur est fait de telle sorte
Qu'il fuit incessamment qu'une ruine en sorte ;
Que la mort soit son terme, il ne l'ignore pas,
Et, marchant à la mort, il meurt à chaque pas.
Il meurt dans ses amis, dans son fils, dans son père,
Il meurt dans ce qu'il pleure et dans ce qu'il espère ;
Et, sans parler des corps qu'il faut ensevelir,
Qu'est-ce donc qu'oublier, si ce n'est pas mourir ?
Ah ! c'est plus que mourir, c'est survivre à soi-même.
L'âme remonte au ciel quand on perd ce qu'on aime.
Il ne reste de nous qu'un cadavre vivant ;
Le désespoir l'habite, et le néant l'attend.

Eh bien ! bon ou mauvais, inflexible ou fragile,
Humble ou fier, triste ou ***, mais toujours gémissant,
Cet homme, tel qu'il est, cet être fait d'argile,
Tu l'as vu, Lamartine, et son sang est ton sang.
Son bonheur est le tien, sa douleur est la tienne ;
Et des maux qu'ici-bas il lui faut endurer
Pas un qui ne te touche et qui ne t'appartienne ;
Puisque tu sais chanter, ami, tu sais pleurer.
Dis-moi, qu'en penses-tu dans tes jours de tristesse ?
Que t'a dit le malheur, quand tu l'as consulté ?
Trompé par tes amis, trahi par ta maîtresse,
Du ciel et de toi-même as-tu jamais douté ?

Non, Alphonse, jamais. La triste expérience
Nous apporte la cendre, et n'éteint pas le feu.
Tu respectes le mal fait par la Providence,
Tu le laisses passer, et tu crois à ton Dieu.
Quel qu'il soit, c'est le mien ; il n'est pas deux croyances
Je ne sais pas son nom, j'ai regardé les cieux ;
Je sais qu'ils sont à Lui, je sais qu'ils sont immenses,
Et que l'immensité ne peut pas être à deux.
J'ai connu, jeune encore, de sévères souffrances,
J'ai vu verdir les bois, et j'ai tenté d'aimer.
Je sais ce que la terre engloutit d'espérances,
Et, pour y recueillir, ce qu'il y faut semer.
Mais ce que j'ai senti, ce que je veux t'écrire,
C'est ce que m'ont appris les anges de douleur ;
Je le sais mieux encore et puis mieux te le dire,
Car leur glaive, en entrant, l'a gravé dans mon coeur :

Créature d'un jour qui t'agites une heure,
De quoi viens-tu te plaindre et qui te fait gémir ?
Ton âme t'inquiète, et tu crois qu'elle pleure :
Ton âme est immortelle, et tes pleurs vont tarir.

Tu te sens le coeur pris d'un caprice de femme,
Et tu dis qu'il se brise à force de souffrir.
Tu demandes à Dieu de soulager ton âme :
Ton âme est immortelle, et ton coeur va guérir.

Le regret d'un instant te trouble et te dévore ;
Tu dis que le passé te voile l'avenir.
Ne te plains pas d'hier ; laisse venir l'aurore :
Ton âme est immortelle, et le temps va s'enfuir

Ton corps est abattu du mal de ta pensée ;
Tu sens ton front peser et tes genoux fléchir.
Tombe, agenouille-toi, créature insensée :
Ton âme est immortelle, et la mort va venir.

Tes os dans le cercueil vont tomber en poussière
Ta mémoire, ton nom, ta gloire vont périr,
Mais non pas ton amour, si ton amour t'est chère :
Ton âme est immortelle, et va s'en souvenir.

In your eyes I found myself home.
You stoked the fire, relit my strength.
Soul reborn by the warmth, brandished on my arm a new gauntlet of courage.

Mere seconds later I was pummeled into the throes of war, fighting self fray.
You stood behind me, giving me armour forged from pain and love.

Without you, I'd be lain weak in loss.
Yet I rise from the darkness...
Heart replenished and wearing hope.

I got lost in a feeling, pried myself open to be understood when every part of my nature said to conceal. I wanted to feel human like the rest of them, I wanted to stop feeling so alien. Distance had become me so I exposed myself and now I’m faltering. My deepest crevices of thought are now known, this openness that kills me has also served me. I realized I was raw art, that the strokes of a paint brush within the walls of my mind were defined by complexities of thought echoing so loud until my lips sung my soul once again. I realized that not everyone could simply understand and I wanted to revoke all I said, I wanted to close myself again but I couldn’t erase the damage already done…
Well I got lost in a feeling, I became slave to it and did all I could to serve this unquenchable thirst that my soul holds. I grab at my heart with both hands and clench so tight at the restraints of this suit of skin that keeps me held in. I felt like painting the walls with my brain and it wasn’t for my disdain towards this life I lead, I was actually fond of life but that’s the thing. See I was so devoured by a moment, that I couldn’t bare letting go, and I knew time would shift and the faces would change but I was so loyal I didn’t want to adapt. I was in love with everyone I knew and life was tearing us apart, breaking us down and I saw the light behind so many eyes that used to burn with the intensity of the sun, fall so dim it resembled an empty void and one by one iron wills were broken.
I felt like crying in rooms full of people, when the alcohol was long gone and everyone escaped but I just sat there absorbing the fact that I was the only one present. That I got so lost in this feeling, in this very moment, I could no longer run. So I waited patiently for intoxication to leave my mind and I walk outside to my car, I put the key in the ignition and drive. The sun is now rising and there’s a baby blue fuzz surrounding me. I parked in front of my house and thought about the hell that awaits for me behind closed doors. So I drove, I broke free, I gave myself away to the bohemian screaming to be set free. Reality was sure to crash upon me, I looked at the sun while it caved in and I called up an old friend but was reminded of how desolate a moment can be when the answering machine fooled me...
I looked out the window and everyone was going on with their lives in full acceptance. The man walking to the grocery store, the people gathered around the bus stop, and I fell slave yet again. I parked the car in the parking lot behind the bus stop being sure to lock my keys inside so I wouldn’t turn back and dug for some change and I walked up to the bus stop as the bus was just arriving, this moment I can only describe as fate. I dreamed of a clean slate and it was right there in front of me the whole time, my life became centered around riding the busses and people watching. I dug my head in a book in fear of being noticed but somehow I feel as if my deepest fear was my only hope now.
So I was waiting for the right moment, a moment to set my mind free on some poor individual and then the bus stopped, it was late and I was the only one on now. Some of the bus drivers knew me by name and I didn’t know whether to feel proud or pathetic about that but as the bus screeched to the stop before the last one. I saw a leg extend, and pull up a person of slender figure, it was a beautiful woman around my age, I felt sorry for her because the only stop after this one was the bus station and that’s where the bus driver awkwardly kicks you off and tells you to go home.
This is the moment that got me, I was in complete and utter submission as I buried my head into an upside down book, the title read “I am the messenger” and out of all the seats she picked the back corner next to me, she sat too close and I couldn’t focus on my book at all, I was too caught by her presence, I didn’t even realize my book was upside down. She looks down towards my book and doesn’t say a word as she adjust it to be right side up and pats the book twice, almost to assure it will stay upright. I looked over to her with my empty cold eyes and starred dully and she smiled a sweet, closed eye smile.
The coals in my head must had found the furnace again because in that moment I was relit, the fire behind my eyes roared and my soul was awoken again. I felt so very human but I also felt so very human, my shyness lead me to falter and she linked her arm to mine and said “do you mind?” I hadn’t spoken in so long, so very long, I almost forgot how and I said “uh-uh… of course” I clear my throat immediately after and say “I would introduce myself but I don’t believe in names” she smiled with understanding and told me to read aloud and I did with no questions. Two chapter later the bus screeches to a halt and the bus driver gestures for us to leave.
The girl grabs me by the wrist and guides me away, we start walking to a diner that you can see the light to in the far distance. Nothing existed besides for us as far as I was concerned, only the path beneath our feet. She starts telling me how she’s seen me before that she’s been watching me from a distance, and she knew I road the bus all the way to the end and that she wanted to ask me why but I couldn’t tell her why exactly because I didn’t know myself.
So I said what I felt “I fell out of existence and the bus helps me feel like I exist” she smiles again and we are just now sitting down for stale coffee and waffles. She starts drawing on napkins asking me questions, the first one read “why did you fall out of existence?”
I scribbled down “I didn’t feel human” and slid it back to her.
She flips the napkin over and writes a simple “why?”
And I scribble down “well that’s hard to explain”
and she writes “well I can understand”
and right as she slides the napkin over the waffles arrive and the sun is rebirthed as it rises and she looks at me and says “it’s a baby blue fuzz you know?”
As she stuffs a fork full of waffle into her mouth. I’m breathless and overwhelmed by a moment that can only be explained by fate and I feel like crying but I disguise it with a yawn. I write down on a new napkin “I think I feel human” and I crumple it up and put it in my pocket.
She asked what I wrote and I respond “the moment."

I feel the echoes again they come,
my beating heart a heavy drum,
It's hard to make myself think,
when my shadows push me to the brink,

the darkness encompasses me,
In the light I'd rather be,
instead I'm choking in the thick black smoke,
voices laughing as if its a joke,

All I feel is pain and hate,
The girl now foe used to be a mate,
She's been stalking me for a long time,
so much so my thoughts are no longer mine,

she stole my pride, joy and my dreams,
stole my essence it would seem,
what is real and what is illusion,
Am I simply believing delusion,

I am alone and will always be,
If people would think I'm crazy,
I thought that long ago,
when I was lowest of the low,

But true friends stay right by your side,
Till your almost normal and full of pride,
I want burning hope to be relit,
I hope you can still remember it.

How lonely sits this city
Desolate on a lake's jagged shore
A forgotten city in a forgotten land
Awaiting a savior for the city's sins
This city shivers in the midst of the winter's chilling wind

This desolate city has frozen under the turmoil of corruption
And the people have drowned in a sea of the blood of young men
The children of this city have died before their eyes develop to see light
And the leaders have been hauled off to prison for their crimes
This city is paying a heavy price for the sins of her people

It seems this city will never be what it once was
Though the foundations of ancient days still stand
The architecture of those who have gone before still grace the city skyline
And on the outside, the beautiful city remains
But decaying like a corpse on the inside away from view

Under the boot of heavy oppression
The people of this city rise to seek justice
And they mourn the death of their own people
They mourn the lack of justice in this city
And seek to make their own justice

The people march down crowded streets doing funeral dirges
For boys have fallen too soon and in cold blood
And these people demand justice for these crimes against humanity
These crimes committed by the peace-keepers of the city
And covered up by the soulless corrupted leaders

How could the spring ever come to warm this land
After such a winter as this has ravaged against it?
When the ice has frozen over this once-grand civilization
And frozen the last vestiges of life here
How might the warmth ever return?

For the lake that once was filled with swimmers and summer
Now lies frozen, hard as a rock, stretching miles upon miles
For the winter has come and gripped this city
And the winter has choked away all life in this place
And all life has left this ancient civilization

The lights that once shone in the dark have fizzled out and died
And no one has come to replace the light
For when a light goes out
How can it be relit
If there is no light to ignite new brightness

For the light has gone out in this forgotten city
And the people outside no longer see the city
The people outside can no longer hear the city’s cries
And they know not even of the city’s existence
For they cannot see this city of lights in such darkness

How might this ancient city ever be raised up once again?
How could the hell laid upon this land be reversed?
And when will the light finally return to this once-great land?
Who might bring light back and put it in a high place
And also come to end this never-ending winter?

Coming for those in the midst of this terrible winter
A boy was born into the slums, to a mother of no nobility
In a place where the animals came and fed
But this baby boy came and died for all men
Then rose again from death, defeating its power

Yet the people of this city did not know of this savior
For how might they know if they are never told?
And how might they be told if the people of the Lord do not tell?
The people of earth know that something greater must be coming
Yet they know nothing of the Savior who has come and died and rose again

The people of this city wait upon the coming of something greater
To redeem them from their fallenness and brokenness
So the people of the Lord call out to the people of earth
Waking them from their deep sleep and ignorance, giving to them great news
"Awake you men of earth, come out of your slumber!
Rise up from the terror of your nightmares
And see this new day of wonder
For the Lord has come to this desolate place
And given life to this lifeless city
Awake to the reality of our Lord! Awake!"

The people of earth awake, revived from their blindness, resurrected from their death
And they see that all things have been made new
That this once broken city has been made whole again
Whole again through the holiness of the Lord
And all things have been redeemed

The frozen city has thawed and life has returned
The frozen water upon which the people once celebrated as water has melted
And the victims of great crime have found justice
The light has returned to this wonderful city of old
As all life has returned here to this desolate place

We are the light and life of the world
The hands and feet of the Lord Jesus Christ
For we carry the cross for the sake of the city
We brought life to those who had no life, through Christ Jesus
And brought light to a city filled with darkness, with Christ Jesus our Lord

For we are called for something greater
We were created for a land we yet do not know
With fields of joy and wildernesses of wonder
A place far north across the sea
Where we will dwell in this heavenly country for all time
With our Creator and Almighty God, who has redeemed us

Now come awake!

Once you drove up in your
1977 Mercedes,
I could feel the hurried pulsation of a weary heart
over the clattered groan of your engine.
Clambering into my seat, I folded in on myself,
too timid to fold into you instead.

Creamed leather seats on a rusted turquoise shell 
I look to the back, expecting some residue
of the last lipstick crush that you set fire to.
Instead, I found $1 books from the library
and your worn regalia that I would’ve stolen
and kept as filthy souvenirs.
A deep inhale of your burnout sheesha
that bobby pinned to tired marrow in my bones -

I would’ve taken you right then and there.

Instead, we played coy with the thin fabric of a relit friendship
and talked poetry and music over a ceramic bowl
of coconut chicken curry.

But all I romanced was a clustered cocktail
of my favorite things:

The drag of my curious fingertips
underneath your prickled jaw.
This fever building as I curl into your arms
and the corrupted graze of your hungry lips
in the groove of my neck.

Temptation at its finest.
Such promise between two starved pilgrims
But the descent down to the deep V between hips
is a sweet flame that
can easily burn you and leave pin pricked stains.
So its a good thing that I let you go.


October 17, 2013 4:38 PM

I got my dancing shoes back on again today.
**** did it feel good!
I also got back into the rhythm and began tutoring for the beginner level class.
I can't believe that I would really miss that, but I did.

My excitement for dancing has been relit,
And the chance to pass that onto yet another class has me smiling.
A new class and a new semester of opportunities,
With growth and learning available to both the students as well as me.
It's such a great feeling to help them succeed,
As well as helping them progress, especially when they thought they were beyond saving.

Dance is a passion which burns within me.
I can't describe how good it feels to be back,
Adding fuel to the flame which burns in me so brightly,
Adding fuel to a flame
That I almost let get extinguished.

The first time I saw him in 2 years all I could manage to choke out was "where do you stay" and "I'll pay you as soon as i can"
I dreamt of him that night. I dreamt of dew covering the ground, chlorine, and dead things. Dreams of sugarplum fairies danced around my head.
You know, they say "relit cigarettes never taste the same and that's all I've got to say about rekindling old flames" but I imagine you would taste like the last time I kissed you- salty.
Because as soon as our lips touched I started to cry. Because I knew it would be the last time. Because we were too young. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be with you again.
I wish I could roll you into a joint and get high off you. I wish you didn't talk like one of the bad guys, like a gangster.
I wish you never learned what it was like to be without me.

I just want to see you grow
Stronger than  were before
I know it’s hard to trust a hope
But your heart was always stubborn

Hold on my darling
Don’t you let go
For don’t you remember
There are flowers beneath the snow

Well the path is may be long
To find again your soul
But I know it’s still there breathing
Your inner child knows

The walls you built were safer
But every wall it must come down
There is pain with all things beautiful
Your mind will come around

Hold on my darling
Don’t you let go
For don’t you remember
There are flowers beneath the snow

I see you in these fields of green
Your smile broad and true
The light it has relit your eyes
A stronger, prouder, you

Hold on my darling
Don’t you let go
For don’t you remember
There are flowers beneath the snow

A raging fire before us,
That lit the spark,
Between us.
The spark was kindled unto flame,
Sputtered,
And died for a while.
But was relit.
There was a blank page before us,
Our story written by some other.
The page was slowly filled.
Ink ran blood-red.
Words,
Sentences,
Paragraphs.
Blank spaces.

Our story is an odd one,
Still being written.
There is ink in the other's pen,
And life in the characters' veins.
I,
The naive,
Emboldened by you,
The enigmatic.
And I can't quite figure you out.
But perhaps the other can.
Our story has not ended;
There are blank pages before us still.

I've sat and stared at that one word so long, it has lost its meaning.
Love: its taste in my mouth as it rolls off my tongue sends shivers down my soul.
Your smile: its beauty is radiant enough to bring warmth to my ever cooling core.
You: you relit the flame inside me, but now you've nearly blown it out.
you didn't mean to, I know, yet here I lie, embers where a volcano once erupted.

A burning candle lost it’s flame,
The darkened nights washed it away.
In cruelty and negligence,
All is lost in it’s defense.

A little match to be relit,
To send the world out of this pit.
The cold winds blow out the light,
The world takes it’s toll in sleepless nights.

A blizzard comes and brings all harm,
There’s not a light to make it warm.
This little candle withers still,
From dusk to dawn and midnight till.

Unwanted shadows come around,
Bringing darkness to the ground.
Invading all that is there,
Casting the world in despair.

This candle has once been burned,
For the light and warmth were yearned.
Now, in the foolishness of man,
It soon becomes the second hand.

One curious soul holds a match,
Hoping for the flame to catch.
In hope and faith a light to gain,
Bringing back the world to sane.

The little candle soon burned out,
Yet, still the light is carried about.
For that one curious soul,
Is brighter than the candle alone.

I'm bad at falling asleep
It takes me hours
But last night
When smiles relit our faces
And we fought through it all
United as always
I climbed into my bed
Cozy as can be
And before I fell asleep
I felt your arms wrapped around my waist
And I smiled knowing that one day
It won't be my mind dreaming
And wishing
But reality
A blissfully eternal reality.

Don't wait around
stuck in this pit
hoping one day
your flame will be relit

It's not going to happen
so get on with your life
because love is painful
and it cuts like a knife

Each time you recoil
to your northern roots
I am enamored.
Floored.
Caught in your web
like a leaf who's path,
being carved by the wind,
is brought to a sudden
and urgent 
stop.

We were only together
for what seemed like years.
But that was years ago.
And eventually we called it a day.
There have been
other girls since,
but none as calm,
kind
or gentle as you were. 
As you still are.

Every time I move past it
you retreat back home.
And Just like that,
the fuse is relit.
Like that night,
two years ago, in Boyds basement.
We didn't even kiss, but we did sleep
together. Side by side.
My arms around you.

I remember telling you
that I was in love. 
You were the first women
I ever shared those words with.
Im fairly positive that when you packed 
for Georgia
my heart was tucked away in your baggage.
It has resided in Atlanta
ever since.

When the sun died, we shared the last moment's delight.
And God surely lied, if he said that moment was right.

We both knew, though I felt it the more;
The chill in the air, the dying of the light.
She whispered sad words;
Shed sad tears that fell like stars through the night.
And red lines marked their descent from her eyes.

We held each other, though I held tighter yet;
And as the air chilled our crystalline breath,
She whispered laments;
Cried bitter for what joy was not to be.
Our wings were spread, but the wind was cold death,
and in cruel felicity,
it disallowed us our flight. We would never be free.
I closed my eyes.

I thought of the sun.
Icarus had in mind the kindest of ends;
to burn; to blaze; in a pyre so bright.
But to freeze in a daze, so mired in night;
With no luminescence nor warmth to ease our chill plight.
With no heat to dry the moisture that leaked from our eyes.

Together, we thought we would be able to fight.
But it was not to be so.
Forever, we vowed; unto the dying of the light.
We died in each other's arms; but cold and alone.

And our martyr'd tears froze into stars, and they relit the skies.

flame...

pituitary almond,

smokeless lisp

of silence,

kept.

up and out of your

own, articulated

breath.

breathlessly gone--

melting canonizations.

gaunt pools of suns.

relit.

Anybody ever felt like giving up?
Like they failed at something?
Are you in this room right now? Do you exist?
You made it through.
The only wrong answer to falling down
Is staying down...
And you learned how to fly
What you did was amazing
You wiped off the dust and stepped up.

This life would have loved to swallow you whole
With segregation
Devastation
Agitation
Aggravation and
Humiliation
But you wiped off the dust and stepped up

They say don’t speak
Make you weep
Makes you weak
Everything seems so bleak
For it’s assistance you would seek

You felt like you couldn’t bear one more disappointment.
It put you through a phase
In a haze of
“Life’s not fair I don’t care”
But you wiped off the dust
And you stepped up

This life tried to stomp out your fire
But you found a lighter  
And relit your candle

People pushed you down
Pushed you down
And pushed you down
Until you thought you might drown
In tears
In the sound of your own fears
But you wiped off the dust
And you stepped up
You concealed the tears and you fought the fears

Eventually you swallowed the
“You’re not good enough”s
The “You will never make it”s
The “Just sit there and take it”s
But you still had a lingering question:
“Why am I even here?”

And then you made a sudden realization
That you have a purpose on this sphere

Your dreams were hidden behind mounds
But your faith caused an erosion
And now everyone can see who you
Are really meant to be
Because you wiped off the dust and
You
Stepped
Up

And that is why I’m here today
Because I wiped off the dust and I stepped up
I am at a peak

I see everyone. in this world as
Brothers and sisters;
There is no difference between you, me
Or the person sitting next to you
And I can’t wait until the day
The dust settles
And we’re all not just seeking our dreams;
But we are living them

I saw most minds of my generation
(and a few generations past)
all boiled together
in the cauldron of history,
a simmering creation from ancient recipe–

who take one breath of fearsome air,
positioned on false arousals
erasing ****** decades
badgering doves with tropes
of noble hearts
protecting fiery hearths
with flag of nation raised;

who mix in a dozen distasteful cities,
adorned in luxurious isolation
producing delicate ennui
which finds each donation harmful
as colors pretend monochromatic
talk of godless violence
withstanding headstrong lusts for nil;

who devour a whole fetishized messiah,
crowned by galloping anxiety
obscuring bulleted defects
battling monsters mounted
on imaginary horses–not crosses–
whilst saving purest virtues
of every child & mother

who torch refuge under murderous lights,
presented as shackled dilemmas
casting diabolic martingale
pitted against those urban sissies
of shallow flimsy heart
mirroring frozen affections
for bizarre cloven rambling about “facts”

who finish with crooked saucy error,
whipped from soft flesh
converted into rusty treasure
absurdly vacant demonstrations
topping brightly flavored cries
still couching ambiguous decrees
amid gaunt periodic theatrical spectacle

who bellow “THIS IS US COOKING!”
awaiting timer dings to hail
the proud tentative product
of their latest ghastly confection,
seasoned with salty tears
and wrought of troublingly familiar ingredients

who pair sacrosanct identities with Pinot Noir
and speak of black & white & queer as if
they know who is what and why and think
they’re somehow differently acidic
in a stomach digesting stale bread
sopped up stew of circus elephants

who hardly know to laugh or cry,
when sadly forgetful, they’re surprised
by the unsatisfying result!

who hold their noses, ignore the taste,
with eyes downcast,
some mumbling, most shouting
“Just serve and enjoy!”

hearts long butchered out and filleted
but still pumping as they fed
millennial masses raised on milk
of Secular Western Humanity

gulping slurping moldy vestiges
forgotten soulful terrors consuming cannibal cravings
passions relit by ignorance of the poem
of life replaced by the hum of sly echoes

ricocheting in revolver chambers
ricocheting in rifle chambers
ricocheting in machine gun chambers
ricocheting in chambers of bombers
ricocheting in chambers of bone in skull

oblivious to decimated cities
–struggling against straw men ignorant to the epidemiology
of the ideology of the very viruses they created–
unworthy of mention or count or even noticing brown lives lost

beating beating beating pounding
till knuckles nearly break
atop the drum of warheads’ quiet boom
Long gone are all objections to escaping
the phantasmagoric discomfort of Actual Reality!

beat on beat on beat on end whimperingly
–with renewed amnesia–
in contemporary post-modern
dullness fading sparks of anticlimax
then no denouement… *Il est vrai pour nous aussi…
Au nom de quoi?

You think you can hurt me but
don’t you see?
I’m not even there,
I’m not even there. I
don’t know where I am but
one of those times you were breaking my heart it
shattered
not into glass but into
feathers that are blown from place to
place born on a soft breeze or maybe a
gust of winter wind but
either way they are not
trapped in my chest that rises and falls too fast when
you walk into the room and step on
my love like it’s a
burnt out cigarette,
well-enjoyed but past it’s time.
And now I wish you could see I
lit it just for you and
nothing made me feel better than when
you smoked me and
treasured every exhale but then
nothing hurt so much as feeling you
lowering me from your lips and
dropping me to the ground and even that
wasn’t enough you had to
step on me too so I could
never be relit but yet
my friend, don’t you see?
My heart is not a cigarette,
it’s a hundred feathers
floating on the breeze.
-mm

Christmas wind blows through the street
and, like an ethereal snowflake,
warmth comes windborne
to every Christmaslighted home;
including mine.

And the delicate Christmas zephyr
has relit the hearth within
me, seeking to touch the stars,
source of its fiery essence...
maybe it is you, brought by the Christmas wind.

And I'm submerged in sapphire waters
breathlessly drowning in thoughts of blue
that entail a poetic ascension which,
brought by the Christmas wind, must be you.

And though drafts of subdued indecisions
faze me from abroad the garden of Eden
Christmas wind straightens the vane
for I believe I have found what'll **** me, then.
It is you.

Her mother
at the sink
peeling spuds

I behind
sitting there
in a chair
sipping tea
given me

radio
playing pop
some singer
singing soft

won't be long
she tells me
Milka's such
a slow girl
takes her time
at most things

(I know things
she's quick at
but don't tell
her mother)

I've told her
that you're here
Benedict
but you know
what girls are

I notice
her mother's
wide spread hips
bulging *******
beneath blouse

here she comes
she tells me

and Milka
enters in
sulky faced
arms folded

water's cold
couldn't bathe
she mutters
had to wash
using cold

no matter
Mother says
you're ok
fire's relit
be hot soon

too late now
Milka says
moodily

never mind
Mother says
Benedict
is here now

so we go
out the door
Milka's hand
searching mine
small and warm
heart thumping
mood a storm.