There's a fly buzzing round the room. It's a restless afternoon.  I'm looking out across the rooftops to the high green hill blocking my horizon.  The sky is blue, it's cool and a breeze is blowing. 

Sometimes it seems like every word is a song waiting to be written.  More often, it's just a ramble, a tangle, a blackberry patch without fruit tripping me up in my meandering. 

So I waunder out into the street searching the eyes of people I know for a hint, a sign, a flicker of recognition.  I'm looking for a welcome mat, an open door where I can sit at the table and laugh with the crowd as we down a beer in a conspiracy of comraderie. 

But I don't drink beer and I'm getting bored. I get this feeling I'm an alien intruder as I circle around like a fly in the room with no where to land.