Portland to Paris

Outside the sky is silver, pressed against the sheen of maple leaves which shimmer in a glow of orange light. On the front porch, the chirp of small birds visiting the feeder. Inside, in my studio, it is quiet. The quiet of a Saturday morning. The quiet of a peaceful neighborhood. An occasional door slams and Saturday morning eaters stroll to join the crowd lined up outside Jam, a cafe on the corner, waiting to fill up on coffee, eggs and bacon, tofu scramble, pancakes. 

Across the continent, across the ocean, in Paris, France, that city awakens to the shock of brutal deaths. Terror spilled into the cafes and onto the sidewalks. Blood and death, gunfire, the sounds of sirens and police. This morning, the hearts in the city beating to the rhythm of that shock. Those left alive scrambling to make sense of it all, the wounded suffering in pain, confusion. Those who have lost ones they love weighted by the great grief. The children traumatized, bewildered or shielded from the facts. Searchers comb the city for perpetrators, seeking justice, revenge. And the dead casting the deepest silence, the most profound quiet over all.