Fifty or sixty grackles pass in a ragged flock, the collective patter of their wings beating the August sky, oddly alarming.
Cracked skin on my heels. Bees pass, nuzzling white clover by the kindling. Somewhere, somebody is pulling over in their pickup because what they have to say is so serious they can't risk saying it while driving.
Christmas trees, crabapple jelly. Geese circling the cornfield past the town park. Perhaps we are all ornaments
The Man-without-Shoes contemplates yet another winter. Snake skin lodged in the barn door.
Men who keep things orderly vs. those of us who are too in love with beauty to oppose the entropic gala.
Fox scat, rat tracks. Telling the future for fun in coffee grounds at the cup's bottom. Tea cups full of moonlight.
Yellow where one cannot say is it yellow or simply happy.
The late insight that happiness is mild and that so much of our grief arose in a confused homage to ecstasy.
"Ego is a red herring," he said, a casual aside in a long conversation in Cambridge but still, five words that changed my life.
Cattail, cottontail. All the way to the town line, all the way back.
And the door closed, and the window closed.
The writing now, it writes itself.