Wednesday, July 21, 2021

Jackdaw Soul

My mouth is full of the ocean, blissfully. 

Warm bread with salty butter, wordless grace. 

I carry hay to the horses barefoot, stumbling a little over the early fallen apples, which are hard as marble and make me happy.

Struggling to explain to folks it's not Sappho but Anne Carson's Sappho, and that's not a bad thing at all, just a thing one needs to realize about reading.

No wind, four grackles flying away south. My mother's voice on the phone low tight and clipped, like when she's angry. My Vermont baseball cap soiled with sweat after all these years, hanging on the doorknob of the bedroom, a mystery.

What am I so scared to forget?

My Jackdaw soul.

Woke wondering if any of the kids whose parent's tragic deaths I wrote about years ago as a reporter will ever seek me out, ask for inside scoops, did I keep my notes.

There is less roadside chicory this year than in year's past, and the crows seem worried about something, and aggressive in their worry, and turkey vultures circle, as if knowing something we don't.

With what do you write. How I love falling to sleep at night, those first few hours all the rest I can count on, not knowing ever what will happen after midnight. 

We finish one project - the compost - and begin another, adding more gravel to the horses' run-in, filling seams around the house foundation and gathering fall apples.

A party the neighbors throw, to which we are not invited, watching the preparations occur over days and reflecting on how judgmental we can be. Remembering making out in the parking lot at your cousin's wedding in Montreal and how happy we were dancing?

Clover drying on my feet while I write. Scattering crushed lime over the new compost beds. Not once so far forgetting the daily rosary.

Thérèse of Lisieux visits, following up, so hey, my grandmothers were right all along.

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