sun set sky pink splash purple slash gray
the sky we stand under
while the chickens strut and cats dart (one old and orange, one black and far away)
and a horse appears and disappears from view and a goose too
the dirt under our boots, a speckled big black pot in juniper’s hand and
the blood drips in the pathway/doorway where
the english neighbors line up
to carry the paleskinned plucked turkeys
away to our holiday tables
the air’s teeth not sharp
the wind chaps but doesn’t bite
a fragment
a string of tundra swans
seven of them, low enough to count, close enough to hear
sailing themselves across gray sky over lisi and me
in the community garden
while the sun explodes purple pink
on a horizon i can’t see
the string of swans a fragment
broken off from some great V not in sight
and the snow swirls
confetti-ing over lisi’s gray fur,
over still-green grass,
over my maroon coat
whose claw-wound i still haven’t stitched up
_______
setting an alarm
for some time between 1:40am and 2:40am
to catch some of that full moon orange rust red eclipse magic
three deer three crow sunrise
a three deer, three crow sunrise
(as seen from the edge of the community garden
with lisi the cat tethered to me via a pink leash,
how he slinks to escape the deer, who,
if we move slowly and quietly enough,
don’t startle but instead continue their munching
as we quietly glide past no more than ten feet away)
and a three deer, V of swans sunset
(as seen from education avenue [which is the most
ridiculous name for a street which is why i like to say it
as often as possible], ears craning to catch the the soft
swan sounds)
_______
the tiniest bits of parsley
gathered from the raised bed
my palm full of frilly green perhaps
the last of the season
_______
this used to not happen i say
about lisi, climbing the mountain of us
and snuggling in on our legs/bellies
to bring home
cartoon-like i say about biking into the strong winds
and the blast of leaves (mostly yellow)
moving at me
on my way home
_______
plucking the last up from the church garden:
a few marigold plants that bloomed yellow,
the kales,
and the brussels sprouts
whose leaves we remove and whose roots we cut off
so we have only little stalks with little mini-cabbages
to bring home
_______
i think it’s a wintry mix juniper says
while i sweep the leaves off the driveway
to mulch tomato alley with
and sure enough, the little crunching precipitation
bounces off my raincoat and under my boots
mini-hails landing in the darkness
of post-dusk
the kind of light i never want to leave
the day’s early light brushing the oranging, blushing, and some still greening leaves gold
as we roll along the mississippi on the amtrak looking out
the forest floors a honey-spun carpet of fallen leaves
the kind of light i never want to leave
——-
three safety-orange hunter’s garments
slung over deck railing
at a house just past the tall off-white lightest blue water tower that reads
Prairie Island Indian Community
_______
the rollerblader in flannel
sleeves hitched up
teal wheels rolling forward on sidewalk
while huge german shepard
trots alongside
all seen from my seat at
Hmong’s Golden Egg Rolls
_______
the yellow-fade-to-fuschia/crimson leaves
i pick up from the sidewalk
as we transport ourselves by foot
from one transit mode to another
on a day that weirdly feels like spring
_______
8 pounds isaiah says i weighed myself
about the amount of weight he lost
in his most recent campus food poisoning episode
_______
we fling open the windows
to the broken-plate-on-the-counter home
that, upon our return, looks like ours
but doesn’t smell like ours
more joy in the analog
i’ve been trying to figure out what the way ahead with the detail collector is. i don’t want to stop, but i’ve been dragging my feet to this practice for years. i think it’s partly because this practice lives on a screen. on the internet. and i find more joy in the analog. so, here’s to the analog at the edge of 46 (i turned 46 two days ago) and seeking new ways forward.
detail collector 