I do not handle found feathers. Sometimes the nearness to life is so soft that it hurts. Pine cones on the other hand are fair game! June's very small rabbit spent time nested in the coil of the garden hose beneath the pine, nibbling stray grasses. What I collect is only known in the moments passing – a sort of singular expression tick-tocking into awareness.
Evening is woven by threads of gradient light slipping beyond the boundaries of daytime eyes. The last birdsongs fall away leaving only bullfrogs to offer final vespers. I am already there, before the fade. Before the songs. Before my own reflection in the day's last cup of tea.
Perhaps what is left for these words is the plebeian occupation of description. The excavation of meaning or wisdom or direction or entertainment simply exhausts the existence that simply must be.
Cannot this expression merely and purely give a wordy account for that which has no otherwise? I think that I am beginning to believe the tangibility of the letters representing not me, not other, not universal truth . . . merely THIS. My own surprise laughter at this startles the chipmunk sentries charged with keeping the world safe.
The composition of my soul is not holy or waiting for transcendence. It is simply the inhabitation of blue jay squawks, lawnmower armies, the aroma of a pancake breakfast. It's scared refugees, unstable killers, dead deer left on the road. It's these letters waiting, sent, read, or not. Each of my moments are touched by the others, even after they have passed, because that is how I have seen or heard or smelled or touched or sensed them.
Even all of you, ahead of and behind my reality, the stars of old light and the moon reflecting another source, the mapless trail blazers and the careful cartographers, we are wreathed light touching all that ever is.