maybe it is my ancient self

waking on mica’s couch following the
storm of last night and i’m all cozed up
while the new edge of cool swirls in
the open windows
the howling dog whose howls get louder
as i bike past
(the lonesome/painful sounds rising
from what seems to be a field of corn
to my right off highway M)
so loud and close-sounding that i turn and pedal back
and call out in the general direction of the distress sounds
to no avail
anna’s handwriting on an envelope
sent from the farrrm and how grounding/
contentifying it is to read her
in between sorting and slicing sungolds
to arrange sliced side up
on dehydrator trays
alline and i looking down d.r. drive
into sky and discovering we are both
members of the cloud appreciation society
and though we can’t name the type
of the magnificent white/grey/purpley thing
we can (and will always) appreciate it
maybe it is my ancient self
feeling the pull to get shelter and food
together for the cold season
but there is something in this new coolness
energizing me through my tasks and to-dos
like the shock of aliveness of jumping into
a snowmelt river
the pinkpurpley color of the glass of bubbly water
(with lemon juice and elderberry) that
baigz hands me
describing the taste of dehydrated ground cherries
which range in flavors to
the quickening and slowing of moonstar’s
lift/fall ribcage rhythm
sensation on my stomach/chest
where she lays
and under my palm draped over her
this is a shoutout to danny in ridgefield
who i hope has a moment
while the twins are asleep
so he can read how he is written into:
the sorting and cleaning and clipping of garlic,
the overtold story of the halloween of formalwear in the field,
the harvesting of red rubies (tomatoes) from the vines,


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