Milk Black Carbon
By Joan Naviyuk Kane
Observe the coal dust over boats in the harbor,
the snow load on the glacier. Take in the woman
who pursues a myth to counter another myth.
What dazes, scatters and filters: each respiration
blurs an image. The coal tipple tilts in its new skin.
Meadows blonde. From open shelves, honey jars
tumble to split and spill in the gasp of a temblor.
The thick odor of a nearby smoke will signal the end
of something, not summer. The fire veins as sap does,
translating stands of beetle-killed spruce to crackle
and torch. She cannot hurt too much, too long—
take in the woman you have not become. And
then, take a little breath and hold your breathing.
Breathe, don’t move, and hold your breath again.
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My Tuesday was pretty quiet after a morning unable to do anything on my desktop and realizing I had to get a new external hard drive to move my photos off of it, something I've been afraid to do despite having them backed up on Google Drive and Flickr and on another backup drive. So I did a bunch of organizing, plus some other chores, and eventually we went out for a walk as the weather turned gorgeous.
My Voyager group watched Picard's "Surrender" -- again not my favorite, too much Eeeevil by Vadic and Lore and we're getting a new level of bad science like the Romulan Woo-Woo Women of the first season (I don't care when it's transporters and replicators, but when it affects character behavior, ugh). Now we're watching The Beanie Bubble, which is well done but depressing. The awesome Filson flagship store:
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