He brings me crocodile tears,
and her number is up.
It’s time to remember what it’s worth,
Go down to where the story is born,
down along the muddy bone
of the animal body,
before the cleansing and bleaching
of weather and sun.
It is a spring thing —
an ebbing contraction —
a receding darkness —
how we swim up from our shipwrecks —
how the wind is a gift of song —
a new shore,
a new language,
a new landscape,
with all the Living left to learn.
bluebirds. tree swallows. noisy redwings. circling vultures. chorus frogs. little flock of kinglets. lots of vultures. tree swallows. blue heron. cardinal. more kinglets. another heron. blue jay. peeper. I keep getting bad days for butterflies out here, but at home I’ve seen a mourning cloak and a bunch of red admirals. meadowlark. phoebe. song sparrow. flock of white throated sparrows. robins and redwings and robins and redwings. another meadowlark. downy woodpecker. hermit thrush. smell of wet dirt and green things. turkey vulture. song sparrow. mourning dove. pair of fox sparrows. bluebird. some kind of flycatcher. great horned owl. mallards. flicker. heron in the treetop. song sparrow. skunk cabbage and marsh marigold. coopers hawk. mayapples inching up. toadshade. nuthatches. big flock of coots. chorus frogs. dozens and dozens of swallows over the marsh. pied-billed grebe. tree sparrow. flock of yellow-rumped warblers. little purple violets. twinleaf in little patches.
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)