Answer to a friend about what I write it's not every six or 2, 3, 4, 5 months apart they appear --little fireflies, little sparks -- they come when they can; my half thought out thoughts they bubble up, or float to the top after death fills them up but they have to fight that same long fight we all must make to find a place of warmth, of sun, of a smidgen of light there often isn't a thing I can say to give them comfort or aid to succor their hopes or let them give me mine let's look at the reality they often hide: sick children, sick hearts, innumerable pains, loss of dreams, fear of the kind- ness of strangers and the ill thoughts of friends let me give you a picture: walking in the rain, or the threat of the rain geese exploding in hundreds a hundred feet overhead crying their cry of dismay the sheer beauty and power of their flight all because they were afraid I'll leave you with that -- something close to sublime