Waiting on Cedar Waxwings. Strawberries. Bobby comes by for the all-but-ruined chicken hutch in which my father kept a small flock of Rhode Island Reds the last year of his life and I help him heft it into the pickup. Sunlight on sagging tulips, soft breezes for which no metaphor is immediately available. As a child I prayed a great deal, but also posed questions that went unanswered, which eventually devolved to negotiations with God, i.e., you want me to be good and I want more baseball cards so . . . So I'm lonely, so what? Things happen, seem to happen, and their happening occludes other happenings. We listen to Bob Seger driving to Northampton, my son and I, and it occurs to me that those lyrics were nontrivial influences on my thinking about time and memory. In order to work, mirrors need a source of light. The horses look up as I water the rhubarb, and I make familiar clicking sounds, letting the blind one know it's me. Clouds bunch in the crook of far hills, then trail through the sky as if following the river: late afternoon thunderstorms. At dusk the crickets begin, and the river begins its soft adorations. Whatever is over is over, and whatever is beginning has been with me a long time. Want to talk?
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