Right under the beam across the woodshed, right on the cool flags of the patio, he built a maze of shells from Francis Point, walking the route to meet the minotaur we’d talked about earlier. For an hour he walked the shell path, this way and that. This morning there are varied thrushes where the memory of shells is or isn’t. Where the summer warmth was held until it wasn’t.
The sun is the width of a human foot, said Herakleitos.
Frost on the moss. Cold air. Chickadees in the forsythia. By the doorway, snowdrops in the black bowl bloomed yesterday but this morning they have closed back to buds. Yesterday I tucked compost around the garlic leaves but this morning I put more logs on the fire, think about quilts.
The cosmos works by harmony of tensions, said Herakleitos, like the lyre and bow.
You could say it was quiet at 7:20 when I took seeds out for the birds. You could say it was still. But coming back up the stairs, I heard the faintest music. The wind-chime was turning by the kitchen window.