Dear April there’s a cardinal nesting beneath my bedroom window
she’s sitting on three speckled eggs
our first hot day. sitting on a bench in the woods where i swear the same two or three bluebottle flies keep landing on me no matter how many i kill. no wonder people used to believe in spontaneous generation
the Zang Di book has already proved its utility as a flyswatter. well done Zephyr Press
Stir-fried pork and asparagus is a starting point for poetry.
Zang Di (tr. Eleanor Goodman)
i like this guy. his mind moves in interesting ways
this too in the middle of a well-used trail is language
hypothesis (clears throat): the invention of symbolic language by humans was essential to make up for the lost richness of meaning our more distant ancestors accessed through their noses
there’s a profusion of trailing arbutus blooms this year like nothing we’ve seen here in 52 years. not sure why. though i do have some hypotheses…
it’s maybe a bit unusual in the modern world to know exactly where you’ll someday be buried. i noticed today a porcupine has been littering the ground all around with spruce twigs (they’re messy eaters)
my future gravesite
old puffball
blowing smoke
barred owl calling up in the woods, just one disapproving-sounding who! at a time
for years, my ex heard me talking about bard owls and wondered what made them so poetic
sitting just inside the edge of the woods is a completely different experience from sitting on my front porch less than 100 feet away. a more vulnerable experience, especially after dark. a humbler experience
(when did humility stop being a virtue asks the old crank)
the porch offers the remove of civilization. a roof blocks most of the sky—it’s no wonder suburbanites long ago ditched porches for back decks