ground level
The condition of being all but dead is a great thing: As the garden path opens on the field Whoever said because there’s no one out there, there is reason to despair? The thunderhead you see sailing over the field, purple, redoubling, is your own anxiety. Buy fish for Sunday dinner as if you were a child: be certain your money is in your pocket. You may try to get lost for fun. Listen, you can hear the frost stealing off the hill.
windy revelry
The sky, a tidal sea, speeds by; high winds ruffle and tumble clouds, split by crow and gull flight. At the edge, a piece of birch bark falls passing sunshafts that penetrate the wood. Strung in silence, thin webs flash like neon tubes from tree to tree. Flapping of a cardinal’s rose-brown wings and I resume my evening revelry. Barefoot on the brown cold ground I dance the invisible dance of mayflies. Mutations of dreams arise. Now! Moonless night — spread across leaf and branch.
