The Stranger Kind
It is something to find them —
those who still look and see good.
Good black soil for our stranger seeds.
Erosion is inevitable,
but no negative force.
One sun comes and we are at odds with it.
Another sun shines on the beauty in its wake.
It is something to feel it —
how the wire lights bone and blood,
their hungry roots —
how we get hooked.
The uncomfortable predators.
The feast that can’t be forced.
One moon comes and we are taken with it.
Another shines on the beauty in its wake.
bluejays. an oriole. grebes. mallards. towhee. juvenile coopers hawk? field sparrow.
(myself to myself: if you want to walk into these dense weeds, you’re going to get wet.)
(myself back to myself: so what? you’ll dry.)
goldfinch in the thistle. bluebirds in the walnuts. dragonflies and dragonflies. more field sparrows. a catbird. fox sparrow. big bluestem flowering. smells sweet. 2 monarchs. field sparrows eating the raspberries, which are fading. not many sweet ones left. at the pond, a heron wades and turtles sunbathe. I scare some frogs. Swallowtail.
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)