Two days ago walking in the rain with a cup of tea, penumbral shadows everywhere I looked. These 4 a.m. walks are fast becoming the only moments of the day in which the words “desire” or “grace” have any use. I imagine I see deer, calm bucks the size of pickups, watching as I pass. The question of who to help and how continues to vex. When I tell people I head to the woods before the sun rises, they always ask if I’m scared. These days, only noon scares me and I spend the afternoon recovering. “I do not live in the world in which you live,” I want to say to them and, thankfully, manage not to.
Today promises more of the same. The waning moon was so bright slipping through the western tree line that it appeared blue (the mind said blue where the eye saw white), and I stood dazed in the field watching wisps of cloud blow across it. The sounds wind makes changes depending on the trees through which it passes. Pine trees in particular yield a soothing music. On the way back I tried quoting parts of “Death of a Hired Man,” and came up with nothing, other than a vague sense that I never liked the hired man or for that matter the husband and wife musing on what to do with him. Death solves all our problems.
Social media (sic) and television getting louder and louder in a brain that wants only a still pond. “All ponds need looking at,” wrote Matthew, with whom I have not yet gone fishing. The still pond the better to consider death. Why pretend otherwise? I like to think it all comes down to money but in fact it doesn’t. That’s “the secret.” Such foolishness in stumbling over dark trails in the company of dogs and little moon beams and yet I persist. Even now, hours later, I am not quite forgotten.