I can’t stop going into the woods.
Something there is drawing me in.
Yesterday I was sitting on a log, putting my shoes back on after a couple of barefoot miles. Tall pines stood between me and the sun and the air was thick with dancing motes climbing up towards the glare of the sun and the boughs shook with a small breeze and everywhere my eyes lit things were alive and moving and I thought that I was for the first time home again.
Would that I could build me a shack in them and be silent and walk until my legs fell off and then sleep under a blanket with the overhead stars banging to get in and a well full of cold water and a tin cup and a bucket to draw it and an axe and a pencil and some papers.
And a woman to kill and die for.
Instead I do it in this small, beautiful house almost touching those woods and backing up to them.
And everywhere my eyes light there is art and magic and hard, clean beauty.
Meanwhile, I gnaw the bone of the world between my teeth.