This morning, bear tracks in the sand by the water. And fresh poop where we turn off the highway to the parking lot by the lake. On the highway itself, dark tire tracks from the guys who were out a few nights ago, screeching their brakes and leaving long scribbles on the pavement, some of them quite beautiful. Painted on a rock up the highway, Yaarg, wenches, in red. And periodically, a heart will appear, with initials, sometimes pierced with an arrow. On a tree, a wag has carved Fuck You in the bark. At the end of Sakinaw Lake, pictographs in red pigment: crayfish, salmon, other sea creatures. Two horses pecked in schist at Ribeira de Piscos.
My own marks are made with words, typed, edited, then typeset, bound between covers, left as stories or essays or reminders to myself. Or they’re worked in thread, stitched through three layers of cotton, to hold the layers together, for warmth, and to hold my own time in place, my own place in time, as I sat the fire, quilt stretched in a wooden hoop, the needle following my thinking, turning, turning back on itself, making a spiral, a long curve of river, a meandering path, the way a bird moves in early light, and finishing with a tiny knot to anchor the line.
