September 29, 2014

Still nothing after the Thursday annihilation. My normal dread of choir retreat diminished to a blankness because of it. Sitting quiet under the trees was a solace. . . well, maybe not a solace, for there can be no solace, but a quietude. We heard the owls calling one to another in the starlit dark. Listened to R on the porch, him pouring his heart out. Took a long walk Saturday afternoon to the ends of a great meadow and then out onto the road. In the meadow I said to myself the names of the flowers. I watched a crow cross the amazing blue sky, over the greeny pale mountains, the only black thing, the only moving thing. I tried to get to the riverbank, but it cannot be done from that side of the river. A brown snake with shining eyes looped itself at the edge of the road. I poked it to convince it not to cross through the traffic, which at that time was a multitude of motorcycles. It went back into the sassafras. Lost my voice to the too-much singing, found it again –amazingly–for Cantaria rehearsal. Sat in stupor afterward. There must be a flurry of effort this morning to get back to the place I would have been: I am up to about half of it.

Returned to a great perfume of roses in the front yard, and only two, one orange and one gold, for the perfume to be coming from. Roses of the angelic choirs.