Gunshots in the early darkness and the tender first light of dawn; hares and deer each have their times. I find I am not frightened by the sound of a bullets' release. Nor do I mind the mewling of great herds of hinds. Their sound is so different than anything I've heard before--a resounding, feral and guttural call.
Poronui--the sounds of it, the smells of it. Oh how it's become my home without asking, without me asking it. Just as the rivers are collected in this valley, I've drifted into this place and found a bank to settle upon.
Today I bought three pens and already one has disappeared. So it is with pens. Or so it is with me? Distracted, loose, things constantly slipping through the reach of my fingers--the mesh container that is my soul.