| Random Chronicles Only Little Boxes |
| New Hampshire Writers |
 |
 |
 |
| From the creative mind of a New England fisherman comes... |
| Out Of Order Tales From The Sea by Billy |
Snow covered fields lined with rock walls, trees and old fashion wooden fences. Clean and pure white stretched for
miles or as far as one can see. Dark impressive mountains loom in the background with covered peak tops above
the green tree lines. Roads of various in passes, nail-biting descents, threw gorges and valleys etched out of
mountainsides that the weary avoid as the adventurous tackle and explore.
If it were not for the ocean storms, if it were not for all four seasons defined by their extremes, loved by their
challenges and hated by those seasonally unsalted sufferers it wouldn't be New England. It wouldn't be home and it
certainly wouldn't be anyplace I would want to stay for long. I count on those passing seasons as a reminder of what
time of year it is, for days and weeks have little value in fact, they seem only little boxes to fill in on calendar pages.
A region defined by it's weather, embraced by it's people, regarded, regretted, hated and loved. Its on nice sunny
days driving threw the country, how lucky I am to be here. They say, who I'm not sure but no matter where you go
there you are, meaning no matter how far you run you will never out run yourself. So here in a small snow covered
town, fields layered in winters pure white snow, lined with rocks and fences. Border by dark, impressively looming
mountaintops, laced with snowy peaks above green tree lines I live life. I am an Aries, a romantic and a bit of a hack
writer. I am also happy, glad to be here and not trying to out run myself working in a forward moving direction.
People will always come and go, in and out of my life but somehow never too far away or for too long. I think of all of
them, remembering details, compiled over time of the feelings and emotions, places, times and events we shared..
Roads cross, paths collide or maybe the phone rings it doesn't matter it could happen any number of ways but it
couldn't happen if I was on the run.
miles or as far as one can see. Dark impressive mountains loom in the background with covered peak tops above
the green tree lines. Roads of various in passes, nail-biting descents, threw gorges and valleys etched out of
mountainsides that the weary avoid as the adventurous tackle and explore.
If it were not for the ocean storms, if it were not for all four seasons defined by their extremes, loved by their
challenges and hated by those seasonally unsalted sufferers it wouldn't be New England. It wouldn't be home and it
certainly wouldn't be anyplace I would want to stay for long. I count on those passing seasons as a reminder of what
time of year it is, for days and weeks have little value in fact, they seem only little boxes to fill in on calendar pages.
A region defined by it's weather, embraced by it's people, regarded, regretted, hated and loved. Its on nice sunny
days driving threw the country, how lucky I am to be here. They say, who I'm not sure but no matter where you go
there you are, meaning no matter how far you run you will never out run yourself. So here in a small snow covered
town, fields layered in winters pure white snow, lined with rocks and fences. Border by dark, impressively looming
mountaintops, laced with snowy peaks above green tree lines I live life. I am an Aries, a romantic and a bit of a hack
writer. I am also happy, glad to be here and not trying to out run myself working in a forward moving direction.
People will always come and go, in and out of my life but somehow never too far away or for too long. I think of all of
them, remembering details, compiled over time of the feelings and emotions, places, times and events we shared..
Roads cross, paths collide or maybe the phone rings it doesn't matter it could happen any number of ways but it
couldn't happen if I was on the run.