A spit of snow last night,
a roughness on the land like the scuffed shine of new shoes. A greyness overhead. Yesterday was mild; today the temperature is 30 degrees already. Perhaps the mildness will continue. Outside birds discuss the fine points of their territoriality. Eventually the talk about territory turns on eros, of the bird variety at least. Perhaps for the human variety too. Hmm. Ownership turns on eros. How far could a fellow follow that thought? And what could one learn?
I step outside. A splash of water dripping off trees. It's warm enough for melting. Wetness on the streets. Geese fly away to the north. What do they know?
A mourning dove along Washington Street stays on the street as I pass, moves to the side, does not fly off. A few steps, it thinks, is enough.
A red-wing blackbird, perched on a fence north of Fairwater - its mouth open, calling, calling. What is it crying out for? The same thing we all want?
In the country the lay of snow appears thicker than in town. At least an inch along the roadside, in the ditches, on the fields.
At the edge of Ripon, all the trees bear the whiteness of snow like a hoarfrost.
Why do we think that what's here - what we have - why do we think that can't be beautiful? Why must we go far away to find something that meets approval. Is it because we aren't really able to find a language appropriate for the beauty we find here; or do those far off consciously refuse to understand. Perhaps it is some of each - our failure, those others' resistance. What can a fellow do about it? Is that the question Prairy Erth tried to answer? Is that the question Curlew: Home wrestles with, that Vagabond will struggle with too?
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