My distraction is blackbirds letting the wind hold them in flight, just a quiver of movement at the edge of the field, a whole flock suspended over the cattail-lined ditch. My distraction is the swirling leaves holding a dervish moment right in front of me. My distraction is the five gray squirrels at the pine, ground level a solid ribbon of motion up and down, chasing around, around, around; I dizzy just watching. My distraction is the clouds picking up their petticoats and racing toward the horizon, long rainlegs hurdling sweet gum and maple. Today I passed under the lilac and saw the faint trail that leads from their bare arms down toward the little draw where foxes and deer traverse. My distraction was I didn’t follow.
Today's weak hand writing exercise:
What is this need to witness the day’s firstlight listening for whatever bird is near. What
is it about wind through a pine that makes me sixteen
again, alone beside a dark blue lake when the breeze
started a chorus of song throughout the thousand trees
and I thought yes, this is what I want.
I love this image "the clouds picking up their petticoats and racing toward the horizon, long rainlegs hurdling sweet gum and maple"
ReplyDeleteand your writing exercise today speaks to me, as I greet the arrival of the day and oh my goodness yes, the breeze in the pines.
I could spend a lifetime in those breezes.
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