His house was windows and blackberry bushes, his art black and white faces in crowns of trees. We drummed, never exchanging many words. Last time, I saw him with an entourage of women; a flock of wives wearing white turbans.
I am one of many, embarking on this experiment. The idea is to write a short piece of poetic prose about 365 people I have encountered in my life, one entry per day for a year, using approximately the number of words, matching my age. I've stopped, then resumed, but I am resolved to take this to the finish line.