What does a blog mean to me when I journal daily and continue working on a multi-part prose piece and sidle up to poems from time-to-time. I don’t find myself willing to enter into the Twitter or Mastodon discussions.I don’t have more interesting or deeper thoughts than those I read. The digital community flows around me.
In Hinton’s translation of Po Chü-I
Village Snow, Sitting At Night
At the south window, my back to a lamp,
I sit. Wind scatters sleet into darkness.
In lone depths of silent village night:
the call of a late goose in falling snow.
east of the fog 