Morning air is a series of thick and sweet smells that swell with the rush
of current. The current ribbons and stretches over
raised patches of brown stones. Its skin glitters in sunlight. A small bluegill, elm
leaves, and a few blades of grass slide past—a kindred impression, but
who can say the order of things as they stand in the mind of God, and without
the colors of affections.
Red dragonflies and blue winged maiden flies
double on the surface; they glide and hover in the tall grass. They rise up a foot and a
half and drop back down. They switch places. Two maiden flies mate
in a warm current, one hovering slightly piggy-back on the back of
the other. Nothing in nature is exhausted in its first use.
Overhead, a long, dark, globular bodied caterpillar with light markings
around its face and jaws slices sections out of an elm leaf. The soul traces and
retraces itself, its form, in leaves missing sections.
The caterpillar's jaws are never to be far out of the mind. Thread them back into
the woods where a birdsong carries in the direction of
the rusted chicken-wire fence. Splotches of light fall down on ferns and weed
through the tree line. Patterns of leaves light, shift in wind,
eclipse each other at intervals.