David Brooks

The problem with a question is that it implies its own answer. The problem with an answer that it responds to a question. But the question that rejects its own answer? The answer that will not fit its question? The memory of the tidal flats about Mont St Michel, and in the fields beyond them the stands of trees, ranked, silver in the winter light, like fragments of roads long washed away, or that never came, answers to a question no-one ever got around to asking.

In all weather, but most often in winter, when the days are so short and so cold that seven-tenths of a guard’s life is lived in the dark, or half-dark.

Mt Gulaga becoming visible, something / ending, something beginning, the first / smoke of nightfall / thin over the canopy, / deep of it / rising steadily through the trees.