Pacific Trail

I don't know whether to look at the pictures or listen to the words.

Both are so beautiful and terrible to behold.

After months of reading and hearing such miserable things, I come into a clearing where I can see a little light.

The composition is composed of the living and the dead.

Everything that's fallen is so quiet, everything looks like it's where it's supposed to be, like things that have been at war are now at peace.

Everything I've lived through is being collected--all the time, all the waking and the sleep, the good and bad, joy and fear, the love and the hate--everything that's happened.

Walking through the big fields along the Pacific Trail, I stop to take a picture.