I awoke to find the world windy in its grey cloud cover. What a day it will be today. I thought that it was my imagination. Those owls of the mind that never swooped except in self-recrimination, levelling loneliness into a silhouette with tufted ears, but maybe there WAS more, a creeping, inching enjoyment growing from a shadow to cover the moon, who had his intentions elsewhere. What does an intentional community really mean? The rustle of the open wind gave no answer. Instead, the whole sky was a shepherd, and gusted about sheep clouds, fat-bodied in their layer of the atmosphere. At night the stars went deep into the rich velvet of the sky. But no one stayed to watch them long. Everyone tried sleeping and found that they were waking to another time, the dreamtime. If there were any approximation of luck in the universe, the measure of its joy would be all in carelessness, care-free-ness. So we will see how soon I become someone warmer. I am not the most solar of creatures. Maybe I can be you though. Maybe the act of writing makes me large. If there was ever a way to go from here, I would be borne upon a paper flying carpet with a big pen in my hand. What do I want you to say, my friend? Words of praise, comfort, criticism? But you stay silent. You are wise. I don't want those things. You cannot address the question of what I want. You are not my god, my muse, the big thing that calls me in form the universe to do it honor. I am rolling with the air above, I am pictured in the halls of mountains. Their valleys pine for me, leave a negative space for me to fill, like the gently curving back of the lover, wishing to be held. I am coming home. I am coming home. I am coming home into myself.