Hickory’s gold and gone.
Oaks are finding sweet,
bourbon catching candlelight —
and the geese on the move wobble down
in sloppy circles —
more fall than descent —
like our own miscalculated landings.
No solid ground is needed, just …
try a little tenderness …
how we trip along the edge of the dream,
bugs still singing.
— (how I will keep saying the bugs are still singing just as long as I hear them. how, in this way, we will know when they stop) —
Be wary of the snare
and glory in your broken chain.
How I want to lie in the sun,
among the clouded sulphurs
into the long slow sleep.
— (somewhere in the distance, the
drums of a marching band) —
Bountiful as it seems,
it is hard to reconcile.
And we worry
that we will only ever become half
of what we are.
(62/50, sunny, but chilling)
so heavy and dull after traveling. help, sun! it’s still got some warming power this early in the season. clouded sulphur, fighting the wind. yellow rumped warbler. some kind of flycatcher. seems like not a lotta snakes this year? another clouded sulphur, catching rays, and now two dance an updraft out of sight. anglewing. who’d have thought it would be a good butterfly day?
remember butterfly blood?
here’s a snake. in the sun. i try to shoo him from the path and he coils. i tell him to be careful of bikes. a praying mantis poses for a sketch. on the high hill, another anglewing. milkweed like silver silk.
how seeds catching the sun are still sad.
left hip riddled with sorrow. right foot a stone I can barely lift.
goldenrod fading to gray. another sulphur, then three more coming to the high prairie. so many up here in the sun! goldfinches too! all the yellows finding slower where the sun still makes sweet. leaves scud into the grass, rattle down the trail. another anglewing. by the pond.
how best to press flowers? (i need to relearn it)
in the woods along the catbird trail, chickadees, warblers too tricky to name, little flock of white-throated sparrows. blackpoll. ‘in my mind i was a child /
and it felt good’ around four dozen white pelicans now. i share my binos w some visitors. the usual array — egrets, herons, geese, sandhill cranes. on the exit through the woods, a great horned owl echoes from growing under-tree twilight.
Quote (in my mind, a child): Widespread Panic / title track from Ain’t Life Grand (1994)
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)