I can't seem to keep up with all the grief in the news, all the lives shattered, the loss that bleeds through my newsfeed, another victim of rape, another mass shooting, another black teenager killed.
When said this way the people behind the story disappear from view, the young woman with pine needles in her hair, the nightclub dancers thinking the first shots fired were part of the show, the young kid with a hoody just walking home.
All children, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, moms, dads, family, friends, souls-- interrupted.
The headlines come too quickly, like driving on a speedway through heavy snow, story after story, my eyes can't see the hearts of all the people amidst the speed of the delivery of pain.
I sit here in a small hand-built cabin on East End road in Homer Alaska, surrounded by tall grass, Cows Parsnip, Spruce and Alder trees, all I hear is the water of the creek as it smooths stones in its wake, as it travels sea-bound, always.
Water flowing like so much blood, bullet holes and vaginas probed.
I am so far removed from an Orlando nightclub-- 1'000's of miles, geography, solitude.
And yet sitting here, I can almost hear the victims' screams within the gurgle of the creek.
I am that young woman lying amidst the pine needles, eyes flickering closed.
And the water keeps running, keeps running, there it goes...
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