fieldnotes 11.15-16.16


Troubled by troubling,
we weave fog to keep each other close —
no wind to dissipate,
no weather to catch a sail away.

with its hidden distances,
the world is close enough to touch.
at once near and far:
sumac, riverbirch,
silhouette of looming,
naked trees.

How we embrace it in all but deed.
How that nearness pulls us to action —
devouring loneliness,
always moving in it and with it,
a tear that pulls like a tide toward some true home:

in which to break bread,
in which to make,
in which to go gently
toward a mutual keeping of sleep.

Behind time,
behind time,
and ever behind time —

time that must be taken for so intricate a weave,
time that grows the value of what takes time to know.


flock of tree sparrows. juncos. shovelers. for a second, the sun behind the fog. other side of the marsh is the barest hint of dark gray shadow. something white, possibly a pelican. 5 geese. little bluestem and indiangrass still brilliant in sheltered places. everything close seems, somehow, more present.
the eating of poison. how that resonates in a cascading series of ways, probably more than how it was meant, but then we are what we are.
absurd darkness.
it was a red shirt in the dream. insensible shoes and rain. and the river. the rest lost in the appropriate fog.
bluebird in the high meadow. 1 goldfinch. another big flock of tree sparrows.
the walking women all together today, instead of in their usual twos and threes. how i wish i knew the language. how their apprehension makes me sad.
plenty of mallards in the pond. kingfisher. heron. yellow maple and caramel oak leaves, almost done but still making a scene, with the understory still green and fading, punctuated by red berries and chickadees.
pelican. shovelers. grebes. mallards and one black duck.


2 geese on the marsh, which is frozen today, though i expect it will thaw as the sun gets higher. shovelers on the pond, which is not frozen at all, not even at the edges. still frost in shady spots. mallards on the river.

about fieldnotes

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)

Author: Emily

i once was lost

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