Tide leaves; viridescent oil sheen. The dark silt still pocked with clam air holes. Boats splinter in the reeds. My father, aircraft mechanic, tunes and wires and mends his seaplane, here, near the salt ponds. Oiled hands, cracked cylinders, vise-clamped hoses. The body in need of repair. The faint tap and ring of his tools impeaches the caw of birds and as I watch him, he works, absorbed by a mesh of light and fog.

Forgot Password or Username? Looking forth by light. Deviant since Jul 17, 2003. By moving, adding and personalizing widgets.

Events in the world have made cracking off-color jokes low on my list of priorities, recently. Which is not to say that the coincision of the death of Strom Thurmond with the Lawrence vs. Texas decision did not make me have serious second thoughts about my deeply felt atheism. Here is a random link.

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