Reading 2 books: Beatrix Potter: A Life in Nature (Linda Lear) and In Search of the Canary Tree (Lauren Oakes). One quote unites them and marks much of my own work now as I age into my final decades, "Looking for hope in a graveyard." Potter is dead, but her spirit speaks on. The canary tree is dying, a victim of global warming, yet Oakes is...hopeful. All of us are seeking beyond the doom loops predicted for the future rocketing toward us. Let us rummage the graves for help.

At play in the fields of "free play", Stephen Nachmanovitch's term for improvisation. Going to be annotating parts of his new book, The Art of Is. Let me know if you wanna play. The image is a rambling woolgather through his first book, Free Play.

A second feldgang: walking out to feed the ewes and lambs in the pasture I was stopped by the sight of six yellow swallowtails, still wet and drying.

I snapped a picture and walked away. I turned back for one last look. All gone. I saw the them begin. I saw my three children begin. I saw my grandchild begin. I will not see their end. I will not even see my own end. It will all slip away like six new swallowtails in the spring. 2/4

I Am a Plum Tree

Am I the only one
who celebrates
your coming
and going?
Am I the only one
who transplants
and shares
your offspring?
Am I the only one
who has tasted
your perfect,
Damson fruit?
Am I the only one
who dreads
and fears
your passing?
Am I?
As far as I know,
I am.
I fear
I am.

A zip code is an algorithm, a machine intelligence that can and does chat with other machines. And you don't know their secrets, but they know yours. Fight back. Smash the looms. Misinformate.

My wife blurts out on waking,
"It smells like spring!"
I invoke Admiral Ackbar's epiphany, "It's a trap!
It's a trap!"
She responds,
"Too late.
Too late."
Far too late.

Midnight, Christmas Eve into Christmas Day. Waning full moon. Now is the time when the animals speak. A delegation of the oldest ewes gather around me and begin to sing: When they are done, one by one, they turn away until only Bluebell is left. In silence we sit and praise the moon and the day and the time that is left to us. In the distance I hear a train and an owl and the creek, all in their own kind of midnight lyrics. We all sing. All of us.

If you are a teacher or a student, this is often the time of remorse. It is for me anyway. The image below is an email from a student who was clueless as to how to be a student. It was his first semester. He thought he had failed the course, but I had not finished grading his last two projects. He squeaked by with a "C". His response upon learning this? "Thank god, I’m sorry I should’ve tried harder". I echo that refrain back to all my students. I should have tried harder.

A scufflement in the kitchen that only comes from a bird struggling in a cat's mouth! My wife got there first and shook the bird free. I found it in a kitty litter box and scooped it up in hopeful prayer. Yes! Alive. An young adult downy woodpecker. A bird in the house is a very bad omen according to local folk wisdom. A death sign. I took the downy outside and it exploded in a fluster of sound and fury, signifying...something? Nothing? A feathered thing,
a hope?

Blurry self-image in background, text not machine readable. Show more

I have been reading Matthew Dicks' book "Storyworthy". Reading, enjoying and thinking how apt it is in this point in my life as memory has a tendency to slip. Part of the practice he advocates is called "Homework 4 Life". I have created a google form with two fields: name and memory. The idea is to remember one notable memory of the day or that rose during the day. The image below holds text for Day 4. The act of noting memory is helping to raise more sunken treasure every day.

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An Ode to Mastodon

We respond.
We reciprocate.
We re-articulate.
But these are not diminishments,
not echoes,
not a photocopy of a photocopy. No.
They are amplifications
of the crest
of the heart's pumping wave,
in phase,
constructively interfering.

Thanks for the Memento Mori

I am reminded
of David Hume,
but I can’t remember why.
Suddenly and muddily,
a dead carp of a phrase rises
from Sister Helen’s philosophy class
45 years ago.
“Constant conjunction, not causality”.
I taste cinnamon,
rind of orange,
Grandmother’s English Breakfast tea
in nice china cups and saucers,
“Constant Comment”
in dorm rooms.
Just as suddenly
dries up
like a drained canal,
with this


I am a hedgerow,
illegible to those who live within.
They have never asked,
"Who are you?"
They respect
my "urge and urge and urge",
the generative urge of my world.
I suffice the birds and the worms
and the grapevine
and the bramble
and the rose.
To them
I am
the whole
that I am.
I am not legible.
I am no monoculture.
I sing to them,
"Keep wilding and re-wilding
the world."

Content is dark and concerns the sadness of farmers taking sheep to market. Show more

A flickering candle in a sconce. between friends on Mastodon.

Support.Acceptance.Attention Paid.Reciprocation.

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