I have a friend who says that he goes to church because something always happens. I take a walk in the woods at dusk for the same reason. It’s a little tricky this time of year in the snow. But this is what I came upon last night, wandering around. Where do they go in the cold? Why do they let me walk past them when they have likely been shot at by people of my shape and vertical stature and smell? How do they think of nighttime and darkness? How do we burden ourselves by being afraid of the dark? Or too cozy in our houses? May you go out into the dusk this weekend wherever you are. May you stumble upon something that stuns you into questions, and then better, into not knowing their answers. Peace.
Marching by Jim Harrison (my favorite writer)
At dawn I heard among bird calls
the billions of marching feet in the churn
and squeak of gravel, even tiny feet
still wet from the mother’s amniotic fluid,
and very old halting feet, the feet
of the very light and very heavy, all marching
but not together, criss-crossing at every angle
with sincere attempts not to touch, not to bump
into each other, walking in the doors of houses
and out the back door forty years later, finally
knowing that time collapses on a single
plateau where they were all their lives,
knowing that time stops when the heart stops
as they walk off the earth into the night air.