4. Herbs / 12.30.2017
︎ There is something I remember from this one. Walking the dog before the snow had started. Muddy trails between the deciduous trees. No one around, able to explore. Nothing there, the quiet is pervasive until my boots become stuck in the mud. The sound of the squish and suction.
︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎︎
︎What was I hoping to find in these songs? A sense of release? I was trying to tell you something, but had lost my voice. Earlier in the year I had participated in what would be last act of my writing career and by this point had nearly stopped writing. A few poems came at the Copake house, but it was mostly drawing, playlists, baths in the heart room, watching movies on our phone because the satellite internet was so bad, listening to the tree fogs and the cattle guards sing to the herd.