I rolled underneath the overpass of the six-lane highway. The midday Nevadan sun was beating down heavily. I needed shelter. I was severely dehydrated. My mouth was as dry as an Arabs’ sandal. My head was light and my skin tight and crawling. I had no water, no phone, no wallet,
Creative
So the story goes
When I was young boy I spent time in my Grandparents house in a tiny village in County Galway on the west coast of Ireland. I would stay in the guest’s room upstairs, sharing a bed with my older brother. At night there would be no noise at all, save the rain that would gently patter on the skylight, or the odd car making its way to some remote, far flung home. By day there would be little going on. There were fields filled with corpulent cows, sleepy sheep and dirty dogs. There were little lane ways filled with massive tractor tire markings. There were tree’s that belonged to the witches
The Irish Soul
The wild imaginings of the hot Irish soul
Pause in quiet defiance
Marvelling at the oblique slash
Of Beauty
That airplane streaks across
The wide open sky
The cathartic
Setting sun