Always I give attention to that which resists language. Or is it that some things don't want to be known? In darkness a full buck moon casts itself on the daisies which are tall and bright by the road. Fireflies in the hollow remind me of Emily Dickinson at night in summer in the early 1860s. Grief is a river, not the rusting iron bridge that spans it.
A large sound belies the size of what makes it. Turkey hens cross the road and a dozen or so goslings bustle just after. J. and I study the crab apples and debate the merits of guerrilla gardening, which M. is doing somewhere, maybe outside Boston. A difficult meeting yields subsequent smaller meetings, to which I am present only by believing in both community and duty. Suddenly I come upon a path I'd forgotten - nearly hidden, overgrown, flanked by ancient maples, going west - and I wonder what else I am missing and what, if any, consequences attend.
The Rose of Sharon straightens where I replanted it and its pale green leaves flutter and emit a faint but greening light. At midnight, something came for the neighbor's chickens, and I sat sadly by the window, letting it matter. Admit death and what happens to joy? You can make a dog stay if you merit love. A slow morning filled with coffee, reading, baby rabbits in the drifting shadows of ferns, neighborly voices floating through the heat, and a now familiar ache right about here not diminishing.
Walking a wide circle allows one to face all directions, at least a little. A robin on the swing set at twilight sings and further away one answers and one learns again that territory is simply space and we share it and that is all there is to it, maps and deeds be damned. I walk quickly, which annoys many walkers who want to share the way, yet you have to find your rhythm, and then not deviate from it, no matter who says they love you. Oh strawberries I never knew how much I needed you for breakfast in hot July! Writing or not writing the same.
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