It seems almost accidental —
so simple and automatic when present,
though its presence,
by all means,
is rare —
a kind of pattern recognition via fogged mirror —
from mostly not quite there
to beyond the surface,
from the then
to the next in the now.
I look to precision:
the rhythm of the shuttle,
the spacing of thin silk threads,
and that perfect sense of mechanical making sensory.
I watch you through the window —
your first snow —
and later walk into it.
And I’m afraid something’s gone awry:
breathe to the hip;
count back from ten;
how we bruise beneath the skin
(the overemphasis of sin).
Leave it long and the wound unweaves beyond repair.
(And my fingers are going numb with it.)
spider in the snow.
coyote escort in the snow.
heron flying in the snow.
cardinals, chickadees in the snow.
geese and ducks in the snow.
tree sparrow. the Marsh almost frozen — no birds there. the way the snow emphasizes the architecture of oak. i keep thinking i’m hearing sandhill cranes. things you forget about. mud from snow melt splashed up the backs of your calves. bluejay. some kinda sparrow that hides before i know. redbellied woodpecker. i can hear the robins — down along the firebreak. how you’re proud of doing so much until other people realize you can do so much and leave you nothing but so much to do for them.
(how bemused i am by my vanity.)
little flock of mallards. shoveler. one black duck/mallard hybrid. on the pond. the pond. kingfisher heads down the river — muck! and mud!