Saturday, October 22, 2005

Start Point, NW Wyoming


The dogs are curled in their baskets. Outside leaves crunch underfoot, the goldfish swim deep in their pond, and thick coats turn the horses into great, stuffed toys. It's time to go, to climb onto a jet plane, to stop in Amsterdam, then wing on toward warmth and shimmering silks, toward sibulent words, backpacks, sore feet, and an overload of sensory impressions. It's time to go.