He recalled reading, or writing, a poem about windows: “…When in the past I don’t believe…Great Blue Herons, or diamonds, into dust, or dawn…” “…on cloistered Church walls grows no passion…” “…dances all to the glass…”

“…dances all to the glass…”

Only now the windows were behind him, and they were on the doors to the cabin of the boat he called home.

The wind and mist blew lightly, shifting and swirling into a ball of dancing light around the single bulb at the end of the dock.

He sat.

The boat rocked gently in the quiet waves. The mooring lines creaked, like they were holding a live, almost impatient, very curious beast.

A carrier of imagination, a vehicle of curiosity, more a partner in exploration, wondering “where to now?” and desiring to get on with it.

Through his mind danced the notes and motions of the night’s last tune.

They were mixed and pushed as much by the tunes he was beginning to write, as by the moon and waves.

It was all floated by the anticipation of the future being created-the hint of the horizons, new and distant, the thrill of a truly new wind tugging at his collar.

Funny stuff: new life surging both brought out the deeper passions of the old tunes, and kept the patterns, rhythms, even the very notes of the new, constantly changing, shifting, searching for the form that would ring true and would reflect the context of this period of time; which when completed, would soon enough turn into “old tunes”.

Fascinating: that fascination had both infinite variegations, and focus.

A gull landed on a piling, then another, the dog shifted, and snored, the wind had that costal smell that had been forever part of his heart.

The moon, full, yet invisible above the misty clouds, pushing enough light to watch the waves.

Out on the edge of where light ended a fish jumped, or perhaps a Heron landed, and the ripples spread.

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