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11/29/2003: "Restless"

The trees are restless, swaying back and forth in near-unison, like child dancers, desperately trying to catch up wit one another. It is a vivid, mournful, extravagant, sublime, and awful display. The trees are made of earth, they aspire to the sky as fire does when the air bids them come out to play. It's my Dad's birthday, and later I'll go out with him and get away from the dance of the wooden soldiers. I'm slipping into obcurity again, and I'll have to remember to wite plainer tomorrow.