Thursday, August 5, 2021

Always Relatively True

Turkey vultures on broken tree limbs overlooking the cemetery, lots of wow energy in observing them, is it too late to be a painter, et cetera. Late morning clearing near a pasture corner where the forest presses in, poplar and maple, raspberry bracken, vines I don't know the names of. Sunlight streaming, pillared and full of dust motes, half a dozen generations of family nearby, mist-like, watching. The scripture is what finds you, not the other way around. Blessed is a man who works with tools that don't scare horses. Oh the poem doesn't end there? Jasper comes by looking for old wood one of his kid can use to make picture frames and I let him pick through the scraps. Feral cats hunker by the potato garden awaiting insufficiently alert moles. The sentences of James Fenimore Cooper in the eyes of Mark Twain who was on this subject deranged. True stories are always relatively true. Rain on the grass, mist in the meadow. Squash plants overwhelming the rhubarb. Air is for breathing, living in, becoming happier and happier in. There are those who share our commitment to peace. And with that, begin.

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