A bear - "a big 'un" as my grandfather used to say - crashed the underbrush and tousled briefly with the dog before going deeper into the forest. One does not see so much as sense. The invisible light is the brighter one which is one reason we fear it. And later, coming back, near the old homestead, hundreds of daisies in the bare light, nodding like blind seamstresses beyond likes and dislikes.
The robins sing first, then the warblers. I make fresh coffee and think about the mail, as I have since 1987, when she went to England. The best sex is looking forward to sex. I check the dog for injuries, and myself too, as you never know.
Complexity is usually a substitute for clarity. Rose petals litter the back lawn. You have to read but also write, and both more than you think. Plath's mushrooms, as always, inspire.
While earlier yet, pissing in the ferns and thinking about Emily Dickinson (again), I smiled thinking of her last wishes with respect to her life's work. Carson's revision of Sappho remains essential for one who wants to "get to the heart of it." The moon is golden on the horizon, just ahead of the sun. D. knows I walk at this hour and is often on his porch, waiting.
Writers, like truckers, depend on routine. My infidelities are not crimes so much as incidents of broken in the presence of those who want to heal but can't. Everybody does what they think they have to, and that is the problem really. One writes, one does.