All Results are Possible

What is measurable is not nothing. As the last illusion is choice. So long as there are alternatives, one is not committed. Yet alternatives exist. Don't they? Don't you? A pair of crows, flying not north but south, absolutely in Holyoke, flying low across the landscape, between budding maple trees, one slightly higher than the other and a bit behind so that at first I thought it was an attack, then a race. Then play? A certain level of silence attends, insisting as always on deepening. Beholden - be Buddhable - accordingly. We ford the river gently, as least we thought we did, but in fact it was entering a cinema in which old westerns were playing that mattered then. Historical narrative in which we appear, are implicated, even complicit. Cows appear in memory the same as crossing a field no longer pocked with melty snow and you wait for them, satisfied. My fingers trailed across the iron beams of their skulls, my thumb disappeared in their hungry mouths. Corn snakes the color of old tires coiled lazy beneath a moldy canvas tarp. Also bouquets! She stepped out from under the balustrade wearing black leather and it stopped him, it did, the way that she carried herself, shoulders slung back, head slightly turned to see up the rainy street, and how sleek she was altogether, and lovely too, as if the shadows themselves were no longer nameless. All results are possible then? We entered the chapel to celebrate her ordination, bearing tulips and wearing translucent veils and a song began, a familiar one. Behold the Massey-Ferguson.