Blue jays tap at dawn's window. Passerine thoughts add to the stone's weight of a sunless break. On the way to Detroit, destroyed deer bodies lined the highway shoulder every few miles. Suppressing vomit is easier if you breathe with your chest instead of your guts. I hate the sport of hunting – rather, I hate killing. So do the means end up justifying the ends? Those deer, with their heads flattened against their backs have something to say.
Laundry. Food prep. Packing for the Land of 10,000 Lakes – the hum of a soundtrack in anticipation of being with the ones who gave me Wendell Berry. Our Kenyan fraternity allows no exit wounds. Her language is my language. His music is mine, too. And the children bleed a global blood that cannot be read about or studied or synthesized in a lab. Maybe we will have room in the car for a guitar.
The forever yes: a meaningless distinction of willingness. Rivers, lakes and the sea all push me here – at the bottom, looking up towards light, knowing the gulp of life when I see it. And I cannot wait to get to the lake. L'Etoile du Nord, I shall meet your reflection and consider the fulfillment of days a simple rendering of everything I ever needed to know.
Sleeping bags. Towels. Bug spray. Tuck in. Keep warm. Bug off. God's gaze into summer is calling all the shots now. That's why I say hey man nice shot.