8:18
The man on the corner looks like yet another urban panhandler.
The glittering stone in a Manhattan shop window has stopped me in my tracks.
The twilight sky over Boston’s intertidal flats is glorious.
Walking jacketless on a February morning is a welcome surprise.
Now this is a challenge I can admire.
 It’s 8:18 on the back roads of Pennsylvania and I’m hunting for a tower.
 It’s 8:18 on the back roads of Pennsylvania and I’m hunting for a tower.
In the alley, the clock glows like a cat’s-eye moon.

Rubble

February 4, 2019
The familiar pile of debris is quite dramatic in the snow.
There is nothing more isolating than darkness.
I am finding it hard to keep up with the young, black pastor’s flow of words.
“Isn’t this landscape beautiful?” the woman asks.
At 8:18 tonight, the view from the plane window is stunning.
The clouds above us are twisted, as if the sun has wrestled them to break through.