Creme Brulee

 

The dog rolling and skidding and sniffing happily.  The small smile on my face.  The warmth of the air.  Dog bark echo on limestone cliffs, the water running, the chickadees in the soft sound of wind cedar.  Cleansed.  Embraced. Remembering hot tea in the howling wind snow falling cold ears.  Crush. Crushed.  I look for the ice cave and only see the wide flat sheets of ice, like cracked creme brulee, running rivulet.  Contemplative.  Head bowed.  Curious.  Not curious at all.

Broken grape vines jammed into hard pack foot prints, curlicues, crush.  Crushed.  Rocks exposed, Loud voices echo on limestone cliffs.  Snow falling, sound of some bird, unrecognized.  Remembering why I started coming here.  Remembering why I return.  Peace.  Curious.  Not curious at all.  Nevermind then.  Just keep walking.  One step at a time.

It all means absolutely nothing.  And that is wherein lies the truth of its meaning.  How rich is this life, even when the creme brulee is just ice on the top of snow.

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