God speed all the bakers at dawn.

A year ago when I moved to this place, I would hear the baker leaving at four in the morning to bake his croissants. I would wonder about the apartment in the sky and what it is that drives someone to do what they do. Now it's me living in the sky and leaving at dawn. On the road I pass trucks and I listen to the Blues. I wonder about the Vissershok Road working girls, they recognize me now and wave, skimpy dresses fluttering in the breeze. One morning, an overturned vegetable truck, people spilling into the road for spoils. Bright orange cardinals explode from the reeds. The moon rising like some huge luminous egg, a barn on fire.

Sometimes I shout with frustration, but I know that these are special times.

And my honey and I, we are far apart, but he sends me Turkish hearts.