Monday, July 5, 2010

Satellites From Moment To Moment

Because some mornings I wake and the sentences are there and want to be moved here. The bear - most likely a male - came out of the bracken and stopped to sniff the air and without thinking I took six steps towards him as if at last some important argument advanced by Thoreau was about to be resolved. I shared a longheld secret, the one about how foxes symbolize death, mine, and in doing so at last saw the silliness - is there a better word? - of attaching meaning to any of God's totems. Time is for waking up, which must happen gently, lest we expire in the process. No sign yet of moose, yet bear scat is found almost everywhere, even beside the road, and yesterday a fox was seen in the compost, rooting for the pork gristle that C. always makes me throw away.

Stopping to study the trail where a week earlier I removed a nugget of clear quartz, bloodying my fingers in the process. Their tumbling black bodies are a joy to me, a moment of absolute truth, a clarity without opposite. A bell heard one time yet whose half tones continue decades later, ever recalling that afternoon in Germany, hungry and tired in a shadowy room above the train station, listening to Rilke and Blake. Fresh vanilla ice cream made with cream from A.'s cows who often stand by the fence and stare patiently at us with their eyes as large as satellites. From moment to moment on the zafu thinking.

First tomatoes and the last of last year's garlic. Dreams of a wild black river, of a teacher encouraging me to take my work more seriously, the two of us drinking hot cowboy coffee while herons rise and fall in the distance. I lazed on a borrowed lawn chair, gazing at clouds overhead, humming the old John Denver songs, not thinking about much of anything at all. Raspberries and blackberries, which we share with Robins, and of course the bears. The older dog is clearly dying, which makes me angry at God, though the dog himself merely walks slower, rights the occasional stumble, and is content to sit in familiar places, his head lifted to the summer breeze.

Poetry as a do-it-yourself balm, sentences as unguents. God is no more capable of anger than a cloud or a falling maple leaf. Frost's Birch trees, beneath which one must pass, form an arch over the old logging road gutted by recent rain. Forget-me-nots, a single patch where the trail loops, affording a clear view of Tanner's Field, the horses nuzzling clover as the sun rises behind them. The bear turned - rolled on its haunches - and went back into the forest.

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