What the Muses Leave Behind

"Light can be obscured, but you can't hide gravity," --Dr. Heath Jones. Preoccupied – no, not like a stone, yes, like a river – silent or singing; on thoughts that convey him like Solomon’s great green carpet, he goes. His track is a Silk Road, rippling along a steady dimension where travel is light and payload only pulse and breath, There are days, just past Asimov or Heinlein that drift among Ursa Major and her cub. There are nebulae, he climbs, of brain chatter, accreted like caddisfly cases. There is current that carries him through blustery rhetoric, then breaks into A minor 7th and eddies in with a morning crossword. And there is gravity in memory that tugs his stories back to tighter orbits, dragging tails full of dust, salting old family constellations. He believes in angels, makes sadness the seraph of wind and rain; makes joy the blessed kin of April sunrises and fireflies. Sometimes he broods with the sagging fruit of summer, gathering ballast from pages of Fra

Her market shares dollars swung wide as a neap tide in May, and like a Ruddy Turnstone on the Chesapeake following horseshoe crabs and squid, she began to splash through the thin waters along Wall Street, hoping to glean enough nourishment to make the long flight home.