What the Forest Wants

The chicken in the post office was not our chicken, the clamor not our clamor but naturally we helped corral it. In the village, one attends to work, broadly defined, and leaves the forest to itself which is more or less what the forest wants. Needs? Don't get me started she said, which is what people always say after they are "started." I am always telling lies - which are simply the truth another way, a sometimes elaborate sometimes minimalist way, but mostly an enhanced narrative way, a better story - and then compensating for perceived dishonesty. Jesus wept but so what? We are all composing a plot (as we are all eventually decomposing in plots), and we are all lead characters. After you shoot the goat, you string it up quickly so it bleeds out in buckets, and the blood is good for the garden, but in doing all this one does sense a god or two in need of appeasement. Let's dance! At 4 a.m. the birds begin and you go out to look at the moon - that waning gibbous ensconced in soft clouds - and the river is a low murmur that way, and the city a soft glow on the horizon that way, and desire unfolds all around you, like a patch of bluets re-cognizing sunlight, like melting. Think it over is what I am saying, from this small island of trust in an otherwise reckless ocean. At a minimum find a way to say "be mine." I napped after mowing, sweaty and thought-out, then met with the neighbor to discuss essay-writing, no longer a strong point, and later ate pizza, amazed as always at the abundance of choices. Amazed at always? Well, eggplant anyway. At dusk you think maybe a beer but it doesn't work that way, not anymore. Define your terms, be aware of inferential distances, and remember that luminosity will take care of itself. Here I am, love: what do want to say?