Morning in Marfa

I hear the wind as she passes over the tree, the screen door and the windows’ edges.

I hear the train as he moves stealthily through the morning night.

I am awake.

I sit on the futon in this small living room.

The dogs sleep next to me.

The candles burn.

I write these words on white paper with a black ball point pen.

A book called “Birds of the Trans Peco” rests beneath the paper to hold it steady.

I reach for my coffee. I gaze for a moment at the green mug, Japanese symbols in black are there.

My son gave me this mug.

I say a prayer for him and Helen.

I breathe.

This is all I know.

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