Stranger in the Village
I walked down the narrow lane to the village. On the edges of snow-caressed fields, skeletal trees stood forlornly in their long wait for spring. Two chickens crossed the road towards me, unaware of the joke. Dogs began to bark. You know you are a stranger to the village when the dogs start barking in the still afternoon. There is something lonely and isolating at this canine betrayal of your "otherness".
A river of thoughts snakes through a strange landscape under a pale moon, and that river is me: Sometimes deep and fast, sometimes slow and dreamy, with secret currents that can warm or chill. Spend a while on my banks and dangle your feet in my waters. I am also the snake and the moon. And maybe a poet.
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