I am entering that twilight where I work when others sleep. My Hospice case demands that I be a watcher, on guard for the least restless murmur over the monitor, and in tired anxiety I feel I am holding up all that I love in my vigil. Dawn on the mountain in this season of neither winter nor spring is half haze, part ice crystals mixed with snow, and it shimmers and is gone as the sun climbs over the distant ridge, as if it is something secret that cannot bear to be looked at.
The drugs made her sick, but then she slept. I am looking down into a bowl of a valley that is called Satan's Kingdom. I don't know how it got it's name. Turkey flock in the field, 3 toms shaking their fans. Deer in with the horses, looking ragged. Life and death, aching beauty. Time is a snowflake in the air. I will come back to this later. It demands too much from me now.