May 8 in fact

Finished my Hopkins chapter this morning & now on a briefest pause to reread Eliot. Celebrated with a run. The beach thick with attendees of the Shorebird Festival, clod all in Extra Tuffs new off the shelf, in wide-brimmed hats, hand-holding, children gazing into tide pools while sandhill cranes stalk the limning water, & finally the weather cooperative. Had to run a mile off before Willa could roam loose, but at low tide, the roaming is good, & we took an hour in it today, marooning ourselves in a distance. Still, the evident happiness of others is no salve, but barb & gall. The pith in me heavy yet. I know I can’t shake from me this inborn ache, but I try, flailing against sun & wind. & I breathe into it the better this way. Now Willa curls in a patch of sun at my pillow, pleasantly tired, & I ready to make my rounds in town, overflowing as it is with weekenders and “peeps,” as the birders call themselves. There are, perhaps, worse people to move among. I harbor an empathy for them anyway; how I have spent unfettered moments of witness, noting the scratch & scurry of a bird, its quick neck, fluttered wings, gaze almost pensive. Or heard a song to stop me squarely in my motions. Or wanted to fly far from here.

Comments

matty lite said…
Fuck that, man, birds are evil motherfuckers who would as soon eat you as look at you, if only tey were big enough.
May 8, 2009 at 3:24 PM
ap said…
come to think of it, I have seen droplets of blood on the bills of hooded mergansers. I never put it all together like this...
May 9, 2009 at 2:18 PM
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