your writing is not written

tyler showing me a sampler of the special forest spots
while we ascend along the lichen-covered rock-scapes
and how, once vesta is mentioned, i can’t stop
(calling the land ‘vesta’s place’ or ‘vesta gayfeather’s’, etc)
she tries to remember the name
for the tiny balls of snow/hail
that are neither snow nor hail
but also kindof both
as it bounces off of everything
(the pinecones, the fallen ponderosas, the earth stars) including us
while filling the air with a gauzey haze _______

how i can hear echoes of debbie talking about the grandmothers
(and pot shards and how they like to be seen) as tyler talks
about the rocks around us
i’ll be your sous chef i say to erika
as we head to the river house which is where i discover
(as i chop cilantro, slice avocado, finely chop a shallot and wash the dishes)
that not only do we both grow things,
but we are both writers and we’re both
familiar with this phenomenon
called self sabotage

slicing plantains while i ask questions about things like
why you say your writing is not written
for a large audience to read or why you don’t
want that

the mug of cota tea erika hands me
harvested wild
from the hills/forests
in the time it takes to boil a kettle of water
the slightest moon goes down
into the western ridge

tyler and i peanut gallerying
as erika reads about hermit peak
and augostino, the penitente 
that it’s named for
and how, before that, it was ‘hill of the owl’ in spanish


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