pages from the sketchbook

Words from the sketchbook, collections of life happening randomly around me, I put pen to paper and draw the moments. These are my landscapes, my profiles, my sketches.

Bent head, eye brow a stencil of thin brown perched upward like a thought, her eyes looking downward toward some distance point on the floor. This is her pausing, thinking of the next thing to say. This is a moment that silence fills with potent conversations about uncertainty, the self pausing to collect all the practical that should come with a moment like this. She is in the moment and in this moment she weighs the risks of taking things on or letting the moment walk away.
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There is a smell in the air, fragrant sprigs of lavender and burnt sandalwood mixing in a holy union of two strangers sharing a bench. Bookends of olfactory delights mixing in the shear joy where randomly they collide.
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She said there will be a tomorrow as sundry steps of strangers collide with the air around her. She is a wreck of cold and worn wearing on her, speaking her words to the bitterness blowing around her in this harbor of glass and metal called the bus stop. I was an accidental witness to her resilience toward some unexplained pain she was fighting on this winter’s day. I was her witness.
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Three children sit under lamplight and morning stars passing around some mystery found on the side of the street. A prize, a treasure, a tossed out thing that has become something for them to share.
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The wind’s blowing hard, bitter crispness whirling all around. Snow drifts.
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A cackle and a call out for the bus to come. People talk in murmurs of resistance to the icy day. Its cold, where’s the bus already?