Journal

Days in the mountains, kept here.

Notes on tea, weather, plants, and the small business of slowing down. One or two letters a month.

The first pot of tea after frost

After the first frost the liquor turns thinner and clearer. We changed the water temperature, and the hour we sit down.

The mountain is not quieter in rain. It is louder: streams, falling leaves, the sound of your own feet.

We did not buy the paving. We carried it up, stone by stone, from downstream. Each one still holds the trace of water.

A room held for you