miðvikudagur, júní 25, 2014

nei, hæ

Always a bit odd to stumble over a firefly midday in the garden, like when you ran into your homeroom teacher in the supermarket.

mánudagur, júní 09, 2014


She hasn't been here. Why hasn't she been here? I'm not certain.

She's seen sad things: a squirrel, unaware his hindquarters have been crushed flat by a tire, goes about his business gathering nuts and climbing trees. He is so light that he can do this with only the use of his forelimbs, not weighed down by knowledge of his certain death from sepsis, kidney failure, the obvious. Extraordinary, ordinary animal. Then again, his spine was probably severed: he feels nothing. He isn't there the next day.

This is not the reason. I do not know the reason.

föstudagur, janúar 24, 2014


It is a better world for that dogs dream.

They sleep away most of the day, draped over the upholstery or sprawled across the carpets. Furry bellows rise and fall, long lips slack, eyes quiet behind velvet lids. I am about my work. But a breath drawn too quick and I look over to see pads spread and clench, ears flick, hear tongue click against palette to draw up cool, phantom water to slake thirst won up running crazed loops around the field of nodding poppies, chamomile, valerian. Another sip and he's off again, racing, still in his chair.

I am glad they dream. They don't live long. Dreaming half the day, their lives are twice as long. 

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