The tides of your breath, the anthill shimmering with motion, the chicken scratching her language into the soil, the fly, drunk on light, thrumming and bumping against the glass— you opened the box of quiet inside. You found these things.
The Story Keeper: I have written many love letters to the land. I send them by clouds of tiny birds or through the rain. The land doesn’t know this, but it is always on my mind. I carry it around … Continue reading
Sometimes there are no words.
The secret lies in brushing hair, a hundred and one strokes, down the cascade, long as a mare’s tail. It is carried in the singing learned from children, that floats like so many sparrows through the open window of the … Continue reading
Years ago I fell into a certain rapture with old farm machinery rusting in the brittle grass, the brown sweep of a plow distracted by timothy and bedstraw, a horse-drawn harrow like a hand cupping the ground, their wooden parts … Continue reading