My traveling soul is on a desperate journey, aching to the point of origin...my home state, the cringing for the slashing lake water as it plunges expectedly towards my feet, the shape of the lake in my mind and the spirit calling manitou. I don't exist for any other reason but to get back home. I am both the beacon and the rigger of my own steady ship, gradually moving in the direction of ever opening reunion with my heart and a place. And Jim as he stands there casually over his 9 iron waiting for me in the driveway with a permanent reservation and option to my soul. The dark night and the mosquitos that linger, the gravel like edifice of Van Dyke Street, the sorrow that fills the deep spaces. The barren trees and familiar sunrise, the shiftless clouds and promise of continuity, the faceless entity of life and death and the dice exchange of risk. I am me, in my solemn passage of fragileness as I live between 2 cities, with loyalty to one. In the one I inhabit, I pay little attention to the landscape, a grazing glance at the rocky, dirt mountains as they become hazy in summer heat... I plunge into the crystal, torquoise pool and relish the heat against the cold and find momentary satisfaction in its noonday graces, as my mind recedes to Minnesota woods.