Tracks in morning snow, barely a shake of sugar on a freshly baked pastry, tell stories, but they’re short. A rabbit crossed here, a fox walked straight down the path. My dog Sadie stops & sticks her nose deep into a hole under a tree stump. A clump of fur with no blood has us both mystified: the closer we get to it, or turn things over on the ground & in the mind, the further this event seems to recede.
Winter hasn’t really come – snow melts & rain freezes. I’ve been wearing grips on my shoes for a month. Some mornings a thick fog rises & seagulls still fly in flocks. There’s a heron in this forest that we’ve seentwice now silently gliding overhead – if these are signs, I can’t read them, but that’s alright. It would probably only terrify me; instead I’ll just try to silently get the point.
I’m a black & white photo – coffee precariously balanced on ice, feet stretched out in front, back against a tree. The forest hums & chants its own poetry; the stream, thawed, is a torrent, all percussion.