Friday, August 13, 2021

Canaries in the Attic

Finding order in cricket song, given technology allowing us to do so, which, great, but were we really confused about the order in crickets singing to each other, summer nights beneath a big moon, life making music unto the extension of life?  

The river distant in ways that I did not expect would matter at such a late juncture in my living.

Therapy when one least expects.

Tree branches fall, including a couple big ones it'll take a chainsaw to move, and our weekend plans are shifted accordingly, not unhappily.

Pictures of rainbows, dreams of unicorns.

Oh listen to the willow trees, the silver minnows darting between high-up branches, moonlight the color of champagne and candles. 

Chrisoula comes back from visiting family with tubs of feta, two pans of spanakopita and two of moussaka, and a tupperware of stewed dandelion greens with tomato, lemon and lima beans.

Who was lost when at night on the lake the loons informed us of loss.

This sentence begins with this sentence.

Neither ending nor beginning, nor interested much in language, and yet that in which all language appears, ghost-like.

Turkey vultures hunched over in a rotting maple near the church, their backs turned to us, studying something or talking to each other perhaps, as we all sometimes find ourselves in unexpected proximity to our twin.  

What'll do, what won't.

Stories about my great-grandfather raising canaries in the attic of a Fall River tenement, banished there for having a mistress, not giving up on what was beautiful and given to melody, or was it a form of compensation or am I just doing what I do, making up stories that sound like they're about family but are actually about me.

My dream of a tri-corner hat at last surrendered, as where and when would I wear it, and what purpose would be served, that could not as easily be served with no hat at all.

Of course eating is political I thought that was settled.

In other words, what color is the rain if it's obvious snow is white while - by extension and also for argument's sake - it is hardly obvious that snow is white for it is sometimes clearly blue.

When you know you aren't a body, the way you experience bodies then. 

Trout swimming in sun-pillared shallows, hovering near grayish rocks, visible and beautiful, and also edible.

I want to go back into the sun or where I began.

Part of the apple tree I swore was in God's hands came down in yesterday's storm, including the hollow branch in which starlings were nesting, and the wreckage is heart-breaking but oddly lovely, all those red apples gathered in bunches in rainy grass, no sign of homelessness anywhere.

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