Grendel season

It is that Grendel time of year. Into the forest of essays, thick with quotes from meadhall to mere, I become mired in words. October sun collapses into torrents of rain. Mud-sodden, the land grabs at our feet. We stand before the roots of a tree, looking for the little lost monster hanging between two limbs. Mysteries of meaning soak the ground. Beowulf’s ice-bound boat delays the hero.

I wander into the green unknown, counting words as I go.

tre roots 0564-Edit


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