Saturday April 4, 2020
Quoted by Henry Miller
The spring peepers are out, all talking on top of each other. When I gave the lake my salty water this morning she barely noticed. Hands and knees muddy, I saw a dead frog trapped under a rock, belly up. I can’t stop writing about what is here, now. I pick up board books from the floor, sweep up a stray pea and some dust bunnies, a piece of park. The owl was calling last night, big round voice, reaching way back to someplace ancient and warm. My jaw is tight. I’ve been clenching again. I open my mouth wide, relief, I yawn. I tap the tune of something with my socked toe. I watch the sky turn from grey to grey to a streak of light at the horizon, interrupting the trees. My eyes go to the light. I run my finger through the crooked candle. The cavern of the unknown gaping wide. One step. Another step. Another and then another. “Isolation might be until the end of the year they’re saying,” my throat catches. “Until they find a vaccine…” I count the months on my fingers – April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December. Nine months. Gestation. Oh my God.