Seeds
Taking for granted the pound and hum,
invisible machinery —
a trembling electrical storm in the blood.
That red fruit is buried deep below the bone —
an earth’s worth of feeling.
We push our fingers into sweet black dirt —
mine into yours,
yours into mine —
drilling holes for surprising seeds.
And the roots thicken as they feast beneath,
taking known and unknown —
to name it,
and again to name it.
We are suited for something better than this,
but I suppose we must make do.
And it’s quiet in the woods.
We must name each other without making a sound.
In another season,
those unseen branches will burst from our chests.
Just like everything else,
we keep pushing inward to dark,
growing a hardness
and a skin to withstand it,
so that maybe when it comes back
we’ll be better gatherers of light.
11.26.16
(46/32)
45 degrees. cloudy. and still. the hundreds of geese wobble into the Marsh. blue heron. lots of shovelers and a blue-winged teal. my fingers freezing on the binos. flocks of robins. junco. sharp-shinned hawk.
the world showing us how neutral is anything but.
flock of goldfinches in flight. a seeming sleepiness. an illusion. i try to ignore my whiskey head. walking it off. ‘get out of my way.’ angry stomp. envy. despair. rage. frustration. how do i not burst into flames? drown? suffocate? freeze? goldfinch. clouds and smoke and naked trees. mourning dove. undergrowth still mostly green. mallards on the pond of course. red bellied woodpecker. blue heron at the riverbend. rustling of oaks that hold their leaves through winter. until new ones grow. harrier. boatload of canada geese. coots. another heron.
Notes:
Quote 1 (out of my way): Dave Ramont / ‘It Ain’t Funny’ from Taw (2009)
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)
looking for roots 