Cold front grabbed midnight’s wheel to turn the season on its side.
(milkweed pods beginning to burst – crickets and locusts in a long diminuendo – goldenrod thrives and fades – how we love this vulnerability – purple aster, white aster – everything a suncatcher today)
Thinking of Judgement and recently read —
less the confusion —
why not sooner seek solace?
(eight egrets and an entire flock of white pelicans – goldfinches change their clothes – a ragged-winged monarch takes the sun – battered, we serve the wind – chickadee-dee-dee-dee chicory)
(( i need new shoes and socks ))
Anchored by awkward age.
(one-two-three eagles wheel past – nakedeye – cottonwoods gone close to bone)
One feels a minute mechanism —
within some vast,
some exquisite machinery —
so huge as to be almost hidden.
(cattails above take the wind – hard to imagine the winter that would bend them)
The more we come to know,
the more impossible it is to lie.
And we are so constrained:
by myth of time,
by myth of map,
by myth of wheel,
by myth of mind,
by myth mystic and myth mundane.
we are seed just taking the wind,
and we want to believe
but it takes a season of sleep to arrive.
And if the sleepy winter is a womb,
might it not also be
the fertile soil of our dreaming?
(that dream) —
how it shook me like the earth unbound,
how the aftershocks still take me unaware:
a vision of tender,
reclined and bare,
head in warm dry hands,
cheek to chest —
moon and sun share sky. bluejay alarm. tricky fall warblers. red tops of sumac. leaves flame and ash. calling the wind. for real this time. socks full of seeds. horseweed. goldenrod. aster. cuckoo. snakeroot. cedar waxwings. mourning cloak. smells like carrot leaves. oh! osprey! poison ivy. joe pye weed, fuzzy topped in the filtered sun. eastern comma.
“Anglewings are some of the only North American butterflies to overwinter as adults, crawling into cracks in trees or manmade structures.”
–Jeffrey Glassberg, Butterflies of North America
The 7 Species of Anglewings:
fieldnotes was written at the Marsh beginning Sept. 26, 2016 and ending near the same time in the following year, collected in memo books over the course of many rambling walks.
Beginning on Sept. 26, 2019, three years after the writing, fieldnotes will be published in its entirety, with posts appearing as the corresponding write-dates occur.
(at least to the best of my ability)