Measured by Crows

Does anybody ever really win the game of Survival? Then maybe there is a better game to play?

What if everything isn't an iterated extension of the Prisoner's Dilemma?

What if you're not hungry?

And begin.

Rising earlier and earlier, called by Her. You have to get better at pattern-matching, become excellent at it, you have to go all the way to the laws by which pattern is even possible, i.e., you don't fuck the Goddess, the Goddess fucks you, and only when it serves Creation. 

Distances measured by crows. The river out back is a silver thread flowing through my heart into the cosmos, which is our shared heart learning how to share. The gray death of goldenrod, hollowed-out stalks through which next winter's wind blows. I don't have a baby, I have sisters and a mother. My brother, my killer. My not-so-secret lovers on their knees beside a river, behind churches, in restaurant bathrooms, et cetera.

What if there is no subtext, nor even context, what if there is only this: this this? Up early to pray, devoted to work and writing, given to healing - even these must go, even these. To be ready to die is a form of longing to live, keep digging son.

This is not loneliness, not anymore. This is not suffering. As high up storm clouds race through the sky. The bald eagles, they do not think of me at all.