Greenland, Canada, the Canal, it’s all too easy. Low hangin’ pomegranates. Juiceless.

Je suis réservé. Rather behold, my beautiful new mind and life.

I have reservations too, about implicitly celebrating the ruin and the damage, about why I might be drawn to pictures of dead couches or scrap metal or defunct railroad crossings.

I think the answer has something to do with the fact that … these things are simply what is There, in the places where people are almost completely not any more.

As I pushed on past the graves and the old new house, the evidence of ruination faded, except maybe for an excess of old crumbly dry cow shit.

The absence of the evidence was very welcome.

I don’t want to walk anywhere but way out there right now.

I don’t want to walk at all, really, in temperatures hovering at fifty degrees max.

But it is good for me in more than one way, and the predicted lack of cloud makes the reservations less powerful.

Almost to the point of overcoming.

Whether I overcome, on any given day, is a blessed mystery that unfolds itself.