Scraps from the scriptorium

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The morning starts out gray, dull as a stone in the driveway. “The stone is a mirror which works poorly,” Charles Simic once wrote. But mirrors of any kind bore me. They always give the same answer.

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The structure of the wood must influence how the bark beetles excavate their galleries, I think. Is this the tree’s calligraphy, or the insect’s? I pore over my images with the intensity of a Medieval monk.

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The sky starts to clear. Icicles formed by a waterfall’s spray dangle trumpet-shaped toes above the current.

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A swayback mare and her foal graze at the edge of a snowy pasture. The rusty trailer, too, was once a blank white.

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I spot a ribbon – the kind used to wrap presents – winding through the branches of a ridgetop oak. A balloon must’ve brought it here. The last blue scrap of it almost disappears into the sky.

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