Sunday, October 7, 2018

Swatch of Meadow

  • We hiked Sky Meadows again, all new trails this time, the goats Earthgirl wanted to paint gone from the fields on the trails we'd have taken to get there - I asked at the gate, was happy to hear, I wanted something new.
  • Gray days are best days, sunny days wash colors.
  • Meadows, I love them, I don't think green tunnel until I'm not tubed in one, true, and meadows.
  • We plan to yellow map the park, hike every foot of every trail, next time Lost Mountain. 
  • Someplace new! from yesterday:

  • Virginia is beautiful, often, getting to and from the beautiful sucks (and would suck more w a 2nd bridge, motherficker).
  • (I don't know that he does, the motherficker, want a 2nd bridge, but I, it was there, and I made myself laugh.)
  • This self-imposed requirement I must digest Battle of Kavanaugh in the amino acids of Barack Obama and All Motherfucking Professional Democrats I don't hereby abdicate though I do absolve myself needing to weave all the re-paraphrased shit strands in this case....
  • Flancy Noreen banners hang from high-risers in Bethesda.
  • I was thinking about Thursday Night Pints this past Thursday Without Pints, D said, years ago, Thursday Night Pints years ago, games over, Citizens United, L said, no, Bush-Gore.

  • I. Love. Meadows.
  • The Meadow.
  • 66 out, 340 to 270 back, easier, longer, prettier, policier.
  • Permitted a Meadow.
  • Local apples suck this year, local apple vendors tell me, give me product, their word is true, even the one with the Corey Stewart banner in his parking lot.
  • UPDATE! Future sucks sooner!
  • Cabin
  • Bleggalgaze - I'd like to take credit for the decline in pings (less clusterfuck, more me, for instance, the deliberate posting of favorite posts on slowest days) (and thank you you who still visit), but the noisier the world the less the world comes here (and not just here, perhaps at your joint too, certainly at other Blegsylvanian joints, to read, or not read, there).
  • The top photo bigger at the relocated other place.


Cole Swensen

Green moves through the tops of trees and grows
lighter greens as it recedes, each of which includes a grey, and among the
greys, or beyond them, waning finely into white, there is one white spot,
absolute; it could be an egret or perhaps a crane at the edge of the water
where it meets a strip of sand.

There is a single, almost dazzling white spot of a white house out loud
against the fields, and the forest in lines
receding, rises,
and then planes. Color,
in pieces or entire; its presence
veneers over want; in all its moving parts, it could be something else
half-hidden by trees. Conservatory, gloriette, gazebo, or bandshell,
a door ajar on the top floor.

The trees are half air. They fissure the sky; you could count the leaves, pare
                              defined as that which,
                              no matter how barely, exceeds
                              what the eye could grasp in a glance;
intricate woods opening out before a body of water edged
with a swatch of meadow where someone has hung a bright white sheet
out in the sun to dry.
A white bird in a green forest is a danger to itself. Stands out. Shines. Builds
up inside. Like it’s dangerous to cry while driving or to talk to strangers or to
stare at the sun and a thousand other things
                                                                                   we’ve always heard
people who wear white see better at night, though they gradually lose this
trait as they age.

The air across the valley is slightly hazy though thinning though patches
remain between the groves of trees that edge a clearing in which stands a
single house. A child in a white t-shirt has just walked out of the house and
is turning to walk down to the lake.