The Sated

This is the light of day!

Two-and-a-half months ago this same sky was vermilion, but now the promising topaz hues creep over the Alps. It fades into the bright unyielding sky-blue sky, the kind only in pictures yet never in the ones you take with a camera. Apparently this is how time works, reeling in twilights and hurling each perfect day forward into another.

And really, just two months? My days here hold lifetimes. And despite a heavy weighing feeling of lacks and lusts, they overwhelm. And each lifetime goes by slow, and full.

In the Bavarian Alps I have eaten bergkäse, wheat-beers, and meats of all shapes, textures, and complexions. But today, I had my strudel. It is a neat circle, drawn from this mountain hut, from my first days here, all the way back to this moment of apples crusted, baked, and soaked in a pool of creme. I can't fathom sweeter spoonfuls. It is Hudson Valley cider donut, the street crepe in Paris, New England's clam chowder, and the New Orlean po-boy.

The sun begins to set in earnest. To imagine leaving through my own will seems fumbling, but then I think of hiking Iceland, surfing Portugal, tilling Croatia, and all the other lands I've only dreamed.

And the strudel is enough, for today at least.