fieldnotes 1.9.17

1.8.17
(2/18)

‘…putting on my gloves and bury my bones in the Marshland…’

bluejay. chickadees. song sparrows. frozen crabapples. 10 robins as my mind goes on about bloody hands and cactus trees. redtail hawk. ice still making funny noises. flicker in flight. overheard at riverbend. mallards and kingfisher scolding. i hear another from back in the woods across the river. big flock of canada geese flies in. 120 or so. more robins. chickadees. ‘smart tall functioning girl’ he says.

Notes:
Quote: (gloves): David Bowie / ‘Never Get Old’ from Reality (2003)


Sung

The overwhelming cathartic —
for a minute
I cast a giant shadow.
The siren, in truth.

And then the clouds rolled in.

(In January you have no choice.
There is sun or there is warmth.)

It takes walking to work it out:
how you know this is true, too.
There is no future.
There is no photograph.
There is no memory.
There is no dream.
There is nothing,
because all touch but none can be
the presence,
the present.

(I look to the day
when this might at lsat take,
and another day,
the next.)

I put on my sleeves,
sink my bones in the freeze.

Maybe we are loneliest,
after all.

Keep this to yourself.
Turn it into cocoon food,
metamorphosis fuel.

It is enough.



1.9.17

(19/33), afternoon

chickadee. 2 redbellied woodpeckers. big flock of robins by the cattails. dozens. couple bluebirds mixed in. I take that back. there are hundreds. hundreds of robins. dozen or so bluebirds. chickadees. oh! northern shrike! redtailed hawks. brown creeper. redbellied woodpecker. coyote. ice still making funny noises. little flocks of chickadees. what are these fluffy seed things? (keep this for yourself) mallards and black ducks. another big flock of robins. nuthatch.


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)

fieldnotes 1.5.17

Loneliest

‘…not me…’

Oh,
the clarity of cold —
this solidity of frozen ground —
blue-sky sun seen but barely felt.

Did I tell you how I played with the wind chimes?

Unturned pages,
regret
and regret.

Almost nothing is moving —
blood slow like sap.

We are here but hidden,
and still,
then briefly winging through the edge of the frozen bluegray
all along the wintergrass.

We find different depths —
how we know there are bluebirds in those oaks —
so neither is loneliest.



1.5.17

(13/3)

bluebird on a treetop by the south overlook. and this is the same spot where I saw my first bluebird. (note: first bluebird, nov. 8, 2011.) clouds like crystals, refract. nuthatch. redtail hawk. bearing the wind at the top of the hill, looking toward the oaks and beyond, to the marsh itself. winter is far more colorful than you realize til you’re in it. 2 mourning doves very close. too cold to flee, I suppose. how winter never seems entirely asleep. incipient energy. ink is freezing in my pen. brown creeper. chickadee. flock of bluebirds, by the singing trees. ice on the pond makes weird noises. like swallowing, but percussive, where the water bumps into the freeze. the wind. 3 black ducks. and mallards of course. about 15 each, male and female. one black-mallard hybrid. i will never have time for everything. is that resentment? are there ways to mitigate? or at least navigate? probably. bluejay.

Notes:
Quote: (not me): David Bowie / ‘The Loneliest Guy’ from Reality (2003)


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)

fieldnotes 1.3.17

Resolved

It ends and begins with bluebirds.
Our breathing is strategic:
We seek to prevent further loss —
or transform it
into some small spark
to keep against the dark —
that wave that swells,
but never quite consumes us.
We vibrate at its edge.
Don’t go down.

Is it the vague immediacy of fog that erases our boundaries?
We spill ourselves over —
like ink,
like blood,
like water that seeks then escapes
a million banks and edges —
not a thing to be contained against our will.
We wax with it —
become a vapor that kisses the clouds —
then condense to hover close to what we love most.
We freeze to fill its voids and cracks —
finding all the ways into it.

Who says our hearts have no sentience?
We are made of more than we know,
you and i,
more than can ever become clear.
There is always some new boundary —
real or imagined —
to cross,
some sameness or difference to adore.
But love,
don’t we relish the finding?



1.3.17

(39/19)

bluebird at the top of a tree. then two. chickadees. flock of robins at the marsh edge, singing. it’s melty today. goldfinch. song sparrow. sharp shinned hawk. big mixed flock with cardinals, goldfinches, juncos. At least a dozen cardinals, 30 or 40 juncos. 1 bluejay. song sparrow. birds constantly on the edge of hearing. robins. chickadees. all into the little thaw. mallards of course. the river high with melt. MUCK! bluejays. considering it’s january, i am impressively sweaty.

Notes:
Quote: (line 10, don’t go down): Nick Cave & Bad Seeds / ‘And No More Shall We Part’ from No More Shall We Part (2001)


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)