I do these things for myself,
and no one else.
The smoke and steam rise together,
dance into my right hand.
Words are my boulders of granite,
my journal a stone quarry.
The stork perches on its nest
atop the Catolica belltower.
The sun warms my fingers
around the plastic coffee.
The bells sound the hour
as I leave my own perch.
January 2005
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