(Okay, so I went to bed thinking this had posted, but our internet went out, and I just found out that it didn’t. It still counts though, because I DID write it yesterday, and I am about to go upstairs to write today’s which I will post shortly after this one. Dumb wireless).

Feeling quiet this evening. A quiet little poem, then. Another place poem.

Another Place Poem

TBH is an acronym I need to look up, to be honest. As told by homer, I hazard up the Spring Creek rd in deep Spring, in May, the water runs in the ditches. I am here to notice, and to climb. The hill is the challenge but so is the pure watching, banishing thought, it is the wrong language.  These bugs and colors have an alien voice, so I look and let it be fathomless, this is the mumbo-jumbo that hoodoos me up the hills, one after another, the serviceberries’ white flowers and a small snake trying to eat a dead bumblebee keep me mindless for good stretches of steep red dirt, so does the house with the fresh eggs sign and the sunburned woman with the fully-planted herb-box on the back of her four-wheeler who waved both times, down and back up, this climb slips by in fast breath and mute observations. It is the hummingbird that alerts me to the fast gain–they look different up here, treetop, than when sipping from our hanging vials. More at home up high. So, maybe, am I. It’s the raptor I follow up this hill that pitches hard again and again in stupefaction at the blood sound and buzzings, the quick pulse in a deep chorus. The last hill is a breaking, hands to knees, and the lake light far off wobbles some like something shiny underwater, everything is twofold, the sight and the thought saved for later.

But later, listening to the news and making venison chili, thoughts come back, but tainted with a different present, and each story is a Spring Creek climb without the ecstasy, just a steep pitch without end. My meditation on the hill has not prepared me for this, these words are the offhand of mute, geminate nothing, and tell me nothing more than the window,

now it is raining.

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I had to bribe myself with an ice cream sandwich to get through that one. There’s more to it, I think, but I couldn’t get it worked out in my brainspace. Happy Tuesday!

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