Watching the wind-swept snow, the mind is moving.
In a sudden stillness, snowflakes surface from a barren
current.
Then in a change of wind direction, wintry ghosts are
swirling in their dervish robes.
This cutting scene is taking place before a triptych picture
window.
Inside pictures of New England mountains hang on milky
walls.
Meanwhile a forty-one inch television screen is holy with obscure
blackness.
There are no mirrors outside. There are no mirrors inside. I
am the only mirror.
First, there is a snowstorm. Then there is no storm.
Then there is.
But in an Arizona desert, ravens finger blue guitars.
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