Ah, not a good week for writing. I'm blocked poetically right now. Perhaps tomorrow it will be back.
One of the things I love about Missoula is the type of people that live here, and the fact that they all gather during the summer at the Farmer's Market on Saturday mornings.
At the end of Higgins Avenue is the old Railroad station. At 9:00am, the farmers, local businesses and street musicians set up their booths for the hundreds that gather in the small cemented platform. This time of year draws the lovers of huckle berries and flowers. As you enter the wall of people--college students with dreadlocks, grandmothers toting their grandchildren behind them in a red wagons, couples hand-in-hand, swinging their bags of vegetables--you're greeted by bags full of perfect purple balls, sweetly calling you. The huckle berries symbolize the heart of summer in Montana: you know fall is near, but you can still grasp the taste of warmth in their nectar. Almost everyone has a bag in their palms.
As the morning passes, people suck on their Flathead Cherries, spitting the seeds into their empty espresso cups. Demonstrators gather in the turnabout, preaching the words of Jesus. On one side of the street, the onlookers laugh as a groups of people challenge the preacher with the words of Shakespear and accordin playing. Little do the preachers know that they're quoting the wrong testiment; that everyone is listening to the sonnets.
The markets close at noon. People scatter to their homes, to the restaurants, with their stalks of gladiolas in hand. I open up my bag and inhale summer.
One of the things I love about Missoula is the type of people that live here, and the fact that they all gather during the summer at the Farmer's Market on Saturday mornings.
At the end of Higgins Avenue is the old Railroad station. At 9:00am, the farmers, local businesses and street musicians set up their booths for the hundreds that gather in the small cemented platform. This time of year draws the lovers of huckle berries and flowers. As you enter the wall of people--college students with dreadlocks, grandmothers toting their grandchildren behind them in a red wagons, couples hand-in-hand, swinging their bags of vegetables--you're greeted by bags full of perfect purple balls, sweetly calling you. The huckle berries symbolize the heart of summer in Montana: you know fall is near, but you can still grasp the taste of warmth in their nectar. Almost everyone has a bag in their palms.
As the morning passes, people suck on their Flathead Cherries, spitting the seeds into their empty espresso cups. Demonstrators gather in the turnabout, preaching the words of Jesus. On one side of the street, the onlookers laugh as a groups of people challenge the preacher with the words of Shakespear and accordin playing. Little do the preachers know that they're quoting the wrong testiment; that everyone is listening to the sonnets.
The markets close at noon. People scatter to their homes, to the restaurants, with their stalks of gladiolas in hand. I open up my bag and inhale summer.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
Glad you're getting ideas, I totally can't wait for the shoot, or the news.
Crossed fingers man!
xoxo
ng