Flying,
hovering, buzzing around the bushes and grasses. The grasses now tall and they
bend over in the breeze. The night rains came, but only briefly, and it’s not
enough to cool, to assuage. All around the logs and the great grouping of old
branches piled are the insects. Sometimes a beetle goes past along a dirt path,
on its way to the woods. For an instant part of it glistens in the sun. That
sun dried up every drop of rain, of dew, of moisture…the old creek bed just
caked mud with lines like capillaries winding their way down and down and down
upon themselves and what used to be the bottom of the water. Wildflowers, mosquitoes,
the old barn in the distance. The dens and abodes, hidden. A chipmunk is heard.
Not much more.
Some breeze comes through but it is hardly enough. Even the sand
looks hot, baked, still, slightly frightened under the power and prowess of the
sun. Everything wavers in stillness. Is it benevolent or lurid? It is
neither-nor. Neti neti, - not this, not that. Why put a name on it always?
Nobody around. Someone has chiselled out part of the old stump and the newly
exposed interior wood does not belong, does not have the weather worn and
rustic-matted-rural look of the rest of the log. White clouds. Strange exotic
plants that look like they belong in a more Southern climate and environment.
Mushrooms. Lilies. Trilliums. Old fencepost. Landfill. Flaxen summit. Craggy
rock. Chaparral.
We head out.
We are not for
today.
Chalk it up to
the heat.
We take our
time.
Take a picture
of a beautifully symmetrical and still dandelion by the side of the path.
Out on the long
stretches of asphalt I notice something standing in the field. It is a coyote
but it is large, old, matted, somehow sunken in stature and spirit. It looks
like a statue and then does move. I watch it. It’s far for a picture as I sit
by the side of the soft shoulder. It sees me and moves back about a hundred
feet. He is just a silhouette, really, against the long spaces of loam. Loam
that also seem too dry. Maybe he was looking for water or had found something
around those parts. It is possible he was on his way to the road in order to
cross it and get to somewhere else. Looks a bit lonesome. Yet, as I gaze beyond
the field lines, I can see that where he is headed is looking lush, verdant, and
thick with trees and a forest. I know it is almost impossible for anyone to go
there, which means he is certain to be left at peace, unbothered by human interruption.
I silently wish him a good afternoon and go my
own way.
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