There is no moon; there are no stars.


church ov solitude

When I woke I could only see a faint blueness in the sky, it was not dawn yet. The cold, condensated air was biting. I adjusted the blankets covering me and burrowed down inside. I guessed it must be about ten degrees. I was camped in the middle of a roadside quarry, thick with red clay mud. Below me, the Chewaucan River bounced loudly over rocks as it tumbled its way out of the mountains. I tried to sleep a while longer, but my legs felt cramped and restless and the cold was unrelenting, so I sat up and pulled on my coat.

I retrieve my thermos full of tea from inside the foot box of my sleeping bag, and break open the seal. The warm inside is a nice contrast to the biting cold. The tea is sweet. I notice the outside of the thermos smells faintly like my…

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About Jonathan Caswell

Mr. Caswell has been composing poetry at least since High School. He has been on WORD PRESS for ten years and contributes to two other blogs beside this one. This blog has a Christian emphasis but all bloggers are welcome. Mr. Caswell chooses to---with permission--re[post material of interest

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