Assembled snowflakes. The only crow I ever shot did not die right away but dragged its ruined wings away from me towards the forest and I finished it through tears. Nothing is left of the past: when will you see this?
Early afternoon I settle into half a dozen poems and lukewarm coffee. This body growing weary, its parts no longer fitting, a light begging to slip the lantern’s glass, cross an ocean, ascend. As what happens?
Apples with cheddar cheese, pickles with maple syrup. Listening in on the conversations of others, as if. The cat gods are amused by me, agree to let me live a while longer, I do such a good job taking care of one of their daughters.
Travel plans that don’t extend beyond the back yard or up the street, that man. I remember that cup of coffee – the two of us at the fence watching oxen walk heavily through the rain toward us – and how I knew then how precious the moment was, and is. The dead are not dead, I don’t know who came up with that idea but it's bullshit, utter bullshit.
Slick trunks of maple trees. Junco tracks near the chicken pen. The canoe is a metaphor but also not a metaphor.
There are no crystal balls is not precisely accurate, better to say there is a shortage of folks who know how to scry, i.e., the crystal ball is everywhere. Jasper asks if I’ll be growing psilocybin again and I shake my head, still bearing the wounds of two summers back. You missing seeing black bears, you miss listening to dogs howl far away in the hills, middle of the night, late summer.
Living with his implicit “or else” all my life. This is the end of magic.
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