The familiar sound of windblown, dry leaves scratching against concrete demanded attention on that dark morning – the unintended confluence of God and Man’s best intentions. Every movement impulse sent from brain to body was measured, defensive. Being awake and outside at that hour had cracked the shell of security formed by months of carefully-monitored routine. Several thousand miles and several hundred thousand aimless, self-propelled thoughts later, he remained equally hopeless — skating across a layer of mud which hid the dry and sandy ground. Odors alternated between the pungent and the fragrant in the Arizona desert, after the rain.
David Gauthier has been getting serious about his writing for about 30 years now. He spends most of his time in his Salem, Massachusetts backyard, musing.