I closed my eyes
for one inhale and exhale
stood waiting and small
sage on the wind
reminding me that I am
so many stars
in pre-dawn purple
a teeming riot above
rock sky sage
red-orange blue blue-green
faces lit by the light
my own like theirs
this circle of time
in its always-ness
Filed under Poetry, The road
If I leave my house at 5 a.m., set the cruise at 79, and head west on the NYS thruway to the airport for a 6:40 flight to Montana, the drive is exactly 29 minutes.
And listening to the Dead on the way makes it go even faster.
And seat 37E has a limited view.
we push forward unable to tell the difference between what is below & what is above the impossible horizon other than our trajectory & the languid floating existence of the mangroves & blushed clouds but we push because it gives us what we need with every slow rise & fall the skiff’s bow makes into its distance everything & everything more becoming apparent the unknown & unpredictable only so until we ride on-plane across a dozen jade & cobalt miles of cuts channels lakes potholes shoals white sand skinny water turtle grass & loose sargassum saying the names of each under my breath into the wind in my face internalizing each moment with every leaning wide sweep around the lee side of an island eventually settling into an incoming outgoing slack high slack low tide & posting up on the outside for the inevitable & inevitably unpredictable sight of tarpon shadowing the capricious topography sun higher & higher waxing moon persistent till noon a rookery croaking to life in the growing post-engine silence as our wake settles on shore the world giant & close simpler & simpler this life the more we chance to be in it
They’re like clockwork against the far bank. Two browns holding down the midge-buffet line. Rise…rise. Count three. Rise…rise. I know how big they are. With every lazy porpoise exposing the immense distance between snout and dorsal, dorsal and tail-tip, they’re telling on themselves. My first cast of this thick southeast Oregon sage and high desert canyon morning slips quietly through the air, closing the gap between their clockwork and the inevitable sound of my reel in retreat.
I’m grateful to Marshall Cutchin at Midcurrent for running a piece I wrote (and fantastic image shot by Brett Seng) as a feature this week. The Distance Between.
Have a great weekend, all.
I’m getting on the water.
juxtaposed with an unlikely six hour jazz session on a straining static and likely below-the-radar bible-belt FM station and the featureless August midnight blacktop and black backdrop beyond my headlights on route 30 outside of Jonesborough it’s a lonely straight-through stretch from Little Rock to the Texas border just southwest of Hope
even lonely (maybe because of) the jazz stuck in some recess names escape me quiet incessant soft saxbasspianocornettrumpetsnare lowing their mellow walk in my mind’s corner flutter flow flight figure follow satisfied to play and wait sit-in and play to the empty bar save for the one man in the suit and loose tie eyes closed and harmonizing with his thin rocks glass and the sad woman in the midnight blue strapless slow turn and sway and wish heels on the empty dance floor
the jazz stuck as most all things do and the road kept on sunrise caught me somewhere between Hope and the border I read the sign in its lone star largess jazz and dawn aching through
the crazy riff of sage and red-eyed 80 miles per hour
Filed under Poetry, The road