During this time of year I find it ever so difficult to trace that
thread between depression and content. The winter days blow through my
sloppy hair in a gray haze. Its like time stands still under this muted
cloak in the Missoula valley. The sun can’t puncture the thick to remind
us of the passing hour. Even the breath seems slow, stagnated in
billowing puffs—like the clouds I once painted in Colorado where the sun
always shines and time is lofty. The sun never rises here, the dull is
simply amplified to outline contours of distant peaks wrapped in the
wide valley’s exhale. Storms tease this umber belly floor—a rest stop
for tumult. I suppose even storms need time to billow their breath,
watch it hover and disperse before an energy’s expense.
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