Seaweeds

100717 For years, I have walked over them, crunched or slipped on their skins, never thinking of looking down, so taken under landscape fever; getting tired of sinking into their often smelly torsades, I bent down towards them. This issue is all about bending crawling, within their worlds of silent colors, like at the end of a fall day, with nobody but foxes looking at the frozen scenery, but me half sunk within seaweed existentials.