dear love

dear love,  these two days i find myself in the mountains in this city of strawberries and pine.  i remember you when i take a walk in the cool mornings, how a day stretches and folds itself not unlike the mountainsides.  this city eight hours away from the rain trees and cottonwoods, the city familiar to me.  the circle of writers i sit with, playwrights, screenwriters, poets, fictionists, we all agree:  how silences and restraint account for half the world.  this art of hiding.