Delicate life of a dew, 3

DELICATE LIFE OF DEW IN BEAVERTON N3. It is now one of the many rituals of every early misty mornings in wonderland, some thousands of miles away from the tropics of our everyday concern. I hit the road to bring a daughter to work, navigating roads less traveled, and which, for the life of me, is a welcome respite from my daily grind on the freeway that, when not bogged down by the jam, would lead me always to a pilgrim's prayer. Those are the times when words come to me. They come in profusion, as if in a deluge, like a tsunami of sorts, a Haiyan, and yet, I cannot touch pen and paper. I cling on to the that delicate hope that I could still remember the words when I get to the full parking lot less than an hour after, like this dew, or these dews, clinging on to dear life. When the sun strikes, the pearly half-solid-half-liquid water would dissolve into memory, like air going to all places but not here. So today, after dropping off the daughter, I had to stop and snap pictures of the dew, or dews, that are as delicate as my memory of words that always are fugitives of, and in, my wandering heart. BEAVERTON, 21 Dec 2016.