published in Volume 2, Issue 4 on July 27, 1995
Blue sky's an intrusion when the cloudy dims and branches softly wave their welcome to the rain. Then the sun's a stranger, and the yellow light is hard upon the poor old snow that waits for water cold to wash it down the drain. Rain turns all to smoky day; the grey clouds close my eyes and turn me back in memory to moors unvisited, and that grey rock where clutched my hands green lichen on the cold, damp rough. These tired beginnings are like sleep: When seasons change we want just five more minutes to remain ourselves before becoming something new.