Wednesday, July 10, 2013

A Whispering Sound

So quiet at 5 a.m. I can hear the horse's tail swish. Mist settles. We are the details we notice, not the ones we write.

Yet I could not sleep and got up to walk and came back and leaned against the garage, exhausted and drained. Some writing is like that! And in the morning, still bleary, made muffins for the kids.

Some mornings are like that.

Certain walking sticks are as clear in my memory as walking itself. One sentence follows another. The movement of desire is forever backwards, even as we assume the opposite. Who sees truly, learns, and who learns teaches, effortlessly.

Coffee props the internal eyelids wide open briefly. Grackles worry the chickens. Two weeks ago a bald eagle sailed overhead, the sun bright on the feathers of its skull. M. calls and asks can we meet soon at the lake. Without geography, you're nowhere.

Nor does the Country of Tea have any maps. Turtles make a whispering sound surfacing. Fill bird feeders, clean dishes, gather recycling, rewrite more chapters, repeat. Words spill out like snowflakes and claim nothing but the joy of falling.

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