Mist tracks the river, or seems to, being more a reflection of ambient temperature. After dusk we pause to watch geese appear to emerge from the dark hill - like parts of the hill with wings and a hoarse cry - aiming for the still-flooded corn fields. Religion is a form of marketing. You aren't as interested in criticizing Margaret Mead's seminal work as one might have expected which is oddly titillating.
I fucked up with the bees, two years running, yet there are bees. The neighbor is teaching her lamb to stand just so in anticipation of late summer fairs, another sweetness I can't help loving to unbearable degrees. Distance begets a way of thinking about distance that corresponds to distance, more or less. You are there: There you are: Are you there: but so rarely there are you.
In other words. In these words one is grateful to be nearer Forsythia than previously, all that yellow being an intimate expression of gratitude, a kind of going down on what comes up just because. She putters with old furniture and older tools thinking God knows what about who watches. This is a rehearsal, a recital, redounding.
"It must be cold up there," he said, studying the starlit sky, which I took briefly wrongly to refer to my skull, which was angled such that I could study him studying stars. Back again! My father's corn cob pipes - just two or three of them - encountered while scrounging the attic for the old bible in which my mother drew faces as a little girl. My habit of stopping to stoop and study clover tries everybody's patience so maybe I am really studying patience or others.
You can't really say rain is "for" anything but since when was talking about being right or accurate? Another old New England cemetery, another tangle of stories in which to hide one's fear of living. The blue jay is not whole but a fragment is a way of looking at things that may or may not be helpful because it happens to be true. How crowded making love is, when one thinks about everything and everyone that brought us here!