"Heaven is a sea of untranslatable jokes." But isn't community at least in part a matter of talking, of being able to? As two nights earlier the joke I made about what you do when D. speaks and everybody laughed because?
Beside the road a slender doe and jumpy fawn, the symmetry of its white spots as perfect as a domino. Tiger Lilies abound. And earlier still, unmoving in the brook, nearly lost amongst the mossy stones, a turtle.
Just after sunrise, the moon was a russet glow amidst silent pines. Over where a century ago the trains used to run. Turning to walk away into the familiar is another way to approach the question.
Avoiding lunch in favor of watching crows circle the stream or was it just family. Talk loudly in case of bears. A new standard for gentleness, one that has no dreams.
He wrote he wrote. And I did too, and happily. Not the familiar so much as the answer.
For some reason the wild strawberries which are no bigger than a newborn's toes make me think of stars. Reading while overhead clouds gather and in the distance the tractor rattles haying so late. Christ consciousness is not for sale!
All afternoon a fear just below the surface (what surface) that upon return we would find its brown body just over the meridian, a little pile of guts bland in the summer heat. Tell me again what can love can do?
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