For a day and a half, due no doubt to the rain and snow squalls, high-speed internet access here on the mountain varied from brief and intermittent to non-existent. I was forced to resort to dial-up, where it can take half an hour to complete the simplest task. No chance then of my attention leaping from site to site; I became as slow and single-minded as an autumn cricket.

When I step outside, mid-afternoon,
my quilted shirt turns white
with sudden pixels.
I blink like a cursor.
All the dried goldenrod heads
are blossoming into a second, ghostly life.


  1. Love the poem. The snow seems early, but it is wonderful how the world seems to slow down, even the internet.


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