Two from “Who told you that you were naked?” camp-site:
There is no science without sincerity.
To meet the dissembling gap is not to know.
To know is to be known – not to know, unknown.
Yet, whose courage bears his heart upon the world?
It is all wind and trunk turnings!
There is a dead leaf of autumn-three-seasons-back here hanging twig-stucken, holed but hardy, holding on. I was here then too, shat in the very spot I now camp (no nutritious pile of mcnugget dung will last long with the sort of woodsy coprophagic modern mammals knackering around in this thicket, fear not) – my decision making was indeed then somewhat compromised, or is now. Now, I fret not the phantoms layered on to languaged thought by the grubby fingers of toy‑sharing happenstance as then, yet on ply fingers.
Was it three seasons or seven?
Four by four they come drumming down onward out from unknown store. In the falling snow with huddled dogs into blankets listening, summer the catch of wind the trees carve into spiral unceasing while shadow patterns play tender upon tickled flesh, mem'rial day peopled up every spot 'n' I musta up'n' slept in the gutter, got away before dawn.
Pine fingers dangle like daystars.
A mammal I watched once whiled hours in a game of sorts – she nipped the tips of reaching branches letting little needle bunch pairs drop to a satisfying impact below. Why but for play? The cones, sure, the cones - the monkey wants the cones does she? Well, such cutting as I observed below in severed eternity was never treasure laden!
It is all a game then?
– all some heav'nly squ'rr'l’s merciless ravishing of nature?!? No?
Then let us bare hearts bravely forth!
Watching cones fall
The languid lovelies longing to the call
Jump back kilter racketing off of each chance stick until cradled by the ground
first touch of holy lover
thud confident and strong
One prickly peppercorn of a cone catches in a limb’s needle glove to rest awhile
to test time’s lull’s limits
to watch with me watching them weaken
I’ve lost it in the branches but I’ll listen 'til it drops
Perhaps it never drops, or never stopped
brian brock, aug 2016