Two note chickadee songs, throwing stones, blue smoke where somebody's burning, tail end of the season, and a sentence or two for Bill Corbett who I did not know was dead. "Love," says the neighbor's bumper sticker, while one door down another reads "Trump 2020." The currents in the river are there to teach me about the patterns in this living. My living? Well, whatever nudges us in the direction of more.
Hand gestures attend the dialogue, the car passing too fast to infer anything else. J. calls and we agree to walk in "the meadows" on Monday, otherwise we deploy none of the usual code for psilocybin et cetera. Homemade lemonade, handfuls of granola, agreeing this afternoon we do the raspberries and tomorrow move horse manure. Did I mention the blue smoke floating over the break in the trees where Route Nine runs east and west? My hands move a lot these days - like birds or electrons - cracked skin, skeins of blood where the prickers bite. Spring, Winter into Spring and also, spring.
U.S. flags rifling in sudden breezes on the other side of Main Street. You notice being around more who takes care of their house and who lets it to go shit, so to speak. We are following something, or it feels that way, and if it takes us to Florida or the Canadian Rockies, then so be it. We who angle, who we make it about us, even when we're bent on all the others. Tiger lilies jutting through deadfall, a memory of kites. After a while, what's left to resist? Quarter past three, almost time to go.
A lot goes with us when we go, which is apparently going to have to be okay. It's easy but you don't really want it, which is why you're only sometimes happy, and other insights I'm too lazy to put into words.