Seattle.
It is late October, early November, when Dawn puts on her grey scarf and each day arrives in soft focus, born in muffled softness.
The edge of the world is only a stone’s throw away. Green needles and rusted leaves alike gleam in the moisture-laden air.
Above, southbound geese call with muted trumpets, navigating the blanketed skies, seeking grey waters beneath grey fogbanks.
All is cotton and wool, steely but soft, quiet and chilled, both bright and dim.
I walk dew-slick streets, and feel that here, surrounded by these layers of mist, magic is possible.
k
It’s the end of an era in Seattle. Our last great hometown pitchman, one of Seattle’s 
The spruce stood tall, a shadowed cone against the cold and dawning morn, a giant sentinel overlooking the crossroads along my route to work. The bus rocked like a ship in rough seas as it rattled into the intersection, fatigued metal complaining, whirring heater blasting air like a blow-dryer, but as we passed the ancient spruce, above the din, I heard music.
The restaurant business is difficult. Long hours, slim profit margins, physically demanding work…you really have to love it, because it requires dedication and toil. It’s also really easy to screw up.
Seattle is quiet.
It was still dark when I turned the corner and saw the woman lying on the ground. It was outside the transit station, and a few other early-morning commuters had slowed to see what was going on. Shared glances communicated our mutual concern for the young woman spread-eagled on the sidewalk. One man leaned over, peering down into her face.
I hope you all had a fine holiday. I had a fine one, myself.
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 