The mist is not yellow but it is a white enveloping mist. A purity in the reflection of all colors and I drive into it. I drive into it on Thursday and on Tuesday, cresting the top of the point at which the 520 starts to merge with the I-5. The birds on the water and the mist somehow I would like to be swallowed. Somehow the mist is a door and the cars that enter it are elsewhere—a place that is the mist itself and the water and the double crested cormorants on their bouys, the pied billed grebes.
Heart’s/work is normal, harsh and sweet
On my run I saw a Bewick’s wren.
I followed the wren three miles or more/Three miles or more three miles or more
I’ve written before about wrens and the annual hunt
I have a little box under me arm/A penny or tuppence would do it no harm
I’ve been a bit down. I felt like that little wren opened me back up. I had to search for it, I heard it and saw it fly over to the brush and then, by dint of a perseverance that perplexed my dog, I saw it.
a penny to bury the wren
The mist was not a door, over the crest and down the curve were the cars going south and, on the other side, the cars going north.
The door was the wren.
My heart…a mess in my fingers
In the rain in the snow the rain the snow
Quotes are from Jean Valentine, the song of the Wrenboys and Julie Carr.