Gray tea. Earlier, walking, I couldn't discern between the sound of wind, the sound of the train two towns over, and the sound of the many nearby brooks rushing their muddy banks.
Not quite six and the robins begin. Yesterday a chalky moon floated above the moisty fields and without giving it a lot of thought I waved. Rhyme isn't essential but that doesn't mean it's not fun.
How slow the moon is! One fold enveloping another and so forth. But what is the space in which the folding is?
We linger near the brook where it is colder and darker.
Words become dense, or their concatenation does, and yearning for light intensifies accordingly. The first crocus is instructive, the second redundant.
The dog sleeps deeply and limps now when we walk and I am amazed as always at what my heart will bear on behalf of canines. Deer prints in the last of the snow, cry of geese continuing north, always north.
And this, always this.
In one dream I constructed a ship from stars, in another I chose to be bound to its tenuous mast in order to hear a deadly song and live, and in another I was condemned to a tiny green island inhabited only by bossy parrots. Over and over I return to Robert Louis Stevenson, as if reading were a map, a good one, and his work a necessary way station.
There are always birds, as there are always Emily Dickinson poems, thank Christ. I like your sentences too.
Thus dawn. Unsure as always I turn to language, ask it to guide me through the welter, and witness what it answers.
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