and rushing nights are coming. Jackson’s wood nymphs dance between the pines and beckon towards the forest. They lure me from work, from the slog of solutions over conflict, the reality plod of three meals a day, the straight life. For enchanted seconds I’m barefooting through the long grass, lost in the glades. I’m Port, floating in non-being, the world a zodiac of endless choices and chances all threading away from me, a fantastic diversity all to be explored. And then I snap back, the thread recedes and it’s the keys and the bills and the pinch of the real. Every moment of waking a haddock-slap across the chops. And every breath a gift.
