Breath of the muted voice, becoming quiet along the way, one soft stream of air made softer still, by the

Closed, and older still in memory than forgotten ideas and other points of departure, a book waits behind the centuries,

I don’t recall the official history of the land, that portion of Angeles National Forest where I grew up

Although not a habitué of hotels and airports, I’ve passed through enough of them to reflect, to enjoy their

From my childhood in the 70s, I recall the orange chairs of waiting rooms, plastic décor elements which seemed very