It was a good day to judge the worst Seattle could offer. At five the temperature peaked in the low 50's and the rain fell diagonally from the sky. I gained some confidence knowing that the cold and wet are surmountable. But, the path was far from easy. The earth turned slick and my feet slipped from beneath me as I worked calmly up the ascending hills. Only once did I come to my knees. From the top, light broke through clouds and the city was washed of all its ashen thoughts. I fear my own will linger a tad longer, though I do have greater control of my lungs and the path from where I came seems less to do with the dry heat of summer.
One is where I enter; the other is where I leave. Both potted and protected by the cold sting of the mother herself. It not for the weak those in power would not bother to wake each morning. But, the night is when the forgotten belong to the earth. The most of us; the ones who could have become anything if not for all those other things, all those other people, feeding themselves from inherited limbs numbed by the repetition of time.