There is a mudhut, it exists in a clump of trees, on a slight hill, with one main road passing by it. It and the cars ignore each other. It is like a river of glass.
People gather there, speech and looks, gestures. They come because they want to come, there's no reason for it to happen. No call out, no evites, no notice in the papers or on the web. They arrive at different times according to their own schedules. They don't belong to anyone.
Ghosts are invited. Owls too.
A new chapter will unfold each month. If you have any comments use this
David Eide