Muddy gaps past the transfer station pocked with deer prints pointing to the mountain. Gray clouds far away, like when I try to listen to jazz but can't. The fine-grained sand - pebble-like - of ant hills along Fairgrounds Road, stepping around them. When it rains heavy, as last night it did, the river sounds different, less far away and deeper, the currents coming from the psyche of forgotten gods, and something in us that might otherwise bring the world to nightmare is briefly appeased. Snake-shaped sticks mistaken for - but you know this already. Minnows are the opposite of cursive. Before the familiar opening I cry out in joy and gratefulness and enter singing, a penitent, a postulant, a popover. Wind passes, bending the tall grass on which sunlight glistens, creating the illusion of beams of light passing one after the other through the field toward the hill. My heart today! This rolling tide, this swelling alleluia! So I don't know the names of all the flowers, so what?
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