landscapes and portraits
The line never looks the same. On a bright day, I can see the details of individual trees protruding along the crest. Other days the line is staggered by cloud or absorbed in the morning haze, while a northerly wind seems to bring the line so incredibly close that I imagine being able to reach out and touch it. I sip at the hot coffee and run my finger along the rim of the cup. The sound of the morning traffic rises up in waves. I cut another piece of bread and spread it with butter and jam.
A large cloud has wrapped itself around the peak of the mountain and is bearing down towards the lake. I study the undulations in its surface and the small patches of forest held within its folds. I find the thought stirring within me:
what was the world like before there were people?
I chew slowly and stare without focusing; the breakfast table things recede to an odd distance. I hear the drone of the fridge and somewhere a dog is barking. As my thoughts drift I imagine the forest shifting and spreading; its penetrant greens slowly saturating the reds of the rooftops, the yellows of the buildings. I imagine the lake swelling, silently filling the urban space until its shoreline reaches the foot of the bare mountains.
I watch the cloud getting whiter as it thickens.
There is a small amount of cold coffee left in my cup. I gulp it down.
A lone car passes, heading towards town. My cell phone rings. There are things to be done. I place the lid on the jam jar and screw it closed. The knife, plate and cup go on to the tray. I lift it with both hands, get up from the table and walk towards the kitchen.