WHITE MAGIC AND SIGNS IN THE HILLS (NUMBER 199)

I always wondered as I walked across the part of the pathway that is full of sand just how the sand got there. It’s such a foil or counterpoint and juxtaposition to the feral grass and the dirt, to the sky and the flaxen fields. I mean, sand, in the middle of that place. But it’s beautiful and some dogs have dug a whole near there, in it, as if to bury a treasure or else follow a scent to a seriously dedicated end. Whatever the case, as I look out and out and out, there is an amazement each time when the eye sees the horizon, the small summits, the autumnal hues of the trees there and the rest…

Going along and down the main path I was struck by how many wild grapes have grown there. It is a moment during these days and couple weeks when they are so ripe and full, so deep and textured purple that they become as dark as the earth itself. This is a good dark, like white magic, and speaking of such, I was thinking of practicing some for the benefit of another soul, and have in the head, have in the mind, have in the intent anyhow. But such things are for another time and place and page. For here, we are concerned with being a nature poet, a walker of fields and forests, and are almost upon entry two hundred in an ongoing writing and photography narrative of the impressions of such local travels/excursions. 

Hidden up a small hill is a place where an old tree looms large making its silhouette against the impossibly clear blue sky? Below is a part of the tree that had a strange wildflower/mini-shrub growing near it and lying against it. It wasn’t until I looked at the picture that I noticed a worm or one of the creatures had made markings in the tree. If you look, the markings look like a creature, something like a lion or a four legged animal that has a ghostlike face and looks up, beckoning, reasoning, pleading, singing, or knowing, or seeking to know or learn or discern something from the sky, from up, which I always say is positive, higher, god-like,- spiritual. And this is where it gets very tricky indeed, - for like searching for spirits inside cabochons/jewellery,- which exist, and I was found there,- are these lines random or formed or inhabited by a spirit?- and what of it anyhow and if so? Is this a part of white magic? - seeing or sensing or looking for these types of things? Who is to know? 

On we go. If you really want enlightenment you can’t stop anywheres, yes ‘anywheres’ with an ‘s’ because that is anti-intellectual, anti-academic, and even anti-literary. Going we go. Down and down, and there are flowers and up from there are birdhouses, the odd one anyways, - and beside it if you look closely, on the left looking on, - a jet stream comes out, from across the skies behind. The dog, one of them, stands briefly beside it all and looks around. She is cautious but happy, a guardian, all heart and soul, - pure live being manifested, - a living spirit as physical form.

And there are other things. The wild buds, green and brown, have most all burst and white seeded feather-like cottony material has flown out and around and stays like a beautiful picaresque scene. Each one is made from the same, but presents differently. And there is the area, then day, late day, but now night, - and it must be colder, and these things are closed up and keep their secrets to themselves. The white magic parts, such as the lines in the wood, - are still surely there, and you can’t prove that they don’t wonder as much about us as we do about them.

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