A calm, bright day here today. The wind has settled down to soft and fitful gusts that make the hollow bamboo chimes on the balcony knock against each other--riffing their under-the-breath xylophonic murmurings, while the heavy bell chimes simply sway in silence. Maybe the metal pipes accidentally brush against one another for a moment--a faint blush of sound, a slight peal, an awkward ringing cough.

It's as if they are just on the verge of saying something. But they don't. Of tumbling into a random, jumbled, wind-tossed and inchoate song. But they don't.

How to hold all of that light and cold and sound inside without coming unbuttoned, unglued, unraveled? Without mortgaging oneself to the wind for keeps?

Spiral of freckled grit of a pear skin curling in even, green coils onto a quiet plate.

Beautiful.

"Spiral of freckled grit of a pear skin curling in even, green coils onto a quiet plate." Oooh . . . . wish I'd written this.

Sweet, Lee Ann. Hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.

Thank you, Jo(e), Peter, and Lee! :)