What would this look like to a cricket? Can you say with assurance a dog's life is less full than your own? How many times has the river out back made you a promise and you missed the specific way it was kept (for rivers always keep their promises)?
Turkey vultures in loping circles high overhead and a little west. The lilt of the church steeple, the lull of a spire. Something beyond books, something beyond what we can say with ease, yet still, something we know.
Ceramic Buddhas. Sharing the last of the ginger snaps Fionnghuala made with Chrisoula, leaning against the counter on the side of the kitchen that's hotter, listening to her gripe about work. What groans beginning and what beginning is made better thereby?
Sunday morning, morning after. Cardinals come back to the compost, even after I've stirred and moved it in anticipation of fall distribution, and why? Who is not always in preparation for what they cannot say.
The world seen from a Ferris wheel, love played and replayed in Ferris wheels, this old idea of romance borrowed from what cultural patterns now repatterning in our living the way we live now? Forgive me brother trout - I was a fool who thought he could sit at the table with men who'd given up communing with God and I was wrong and as a consequence you strangled to death with a metal hook in your throat. Plans for replanting the Joe Pye Weed.
Grilling chicken, drinking gin and tonics, radiating nontalkative vibes: sunset. Dousing the light, hunkering down. As we all know, we are the monster of which we are so frightened.
Oh risk a dangling preposition for Christ's sake! We are in dialogue with all life, as life is in dialogue with laws beyond itself, even now converting our narrative identity and spaciousness into not stardust but something finer.
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