Birds squall on the roof. Light is dim and grey outside. Inside a cold to the bones chill so a patterned scarf wraps. It is a zig zag pattern, black and white. Back and forth.
I hear ambulance siren sound. Gone. Somebody I don't know. That sound we all know still reverberating within. Birds still squall. Intermittent lump of things like ambulances and sirens and a feeling of time slipping away. What feeling of needing to be somewhere other than where this body wants, needs to be. And that sound. A reminder. Stop. I remember this old poem and it went something like: "If for once we could stop what we were doing, perhaps a silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves..." It was when I was reading Neruda and I stole away to what felt like a secret world in vivid description of being in nature as a child. What glory. Intermittent sun peaking through clouds and I feel intermittent lift. Just let the body hunker down on a soft chair and look. Think Slow Down. Who asks, 'Go fast'? Not those clouds. Cumulus clouds. Light and mists of water, round celestial shapes. Sculpting. And the bird doesn't mind. Buildings and houses in the distance: still. Colour cadmium red popping in my thoughts. Desire to write. I visualize Coast Salish art colours remembering Susan Point's rotundas that I saw recently. I think how earth colours are grounding.