They’re speechless. They yelp and laugh and look at one another, then back up at the sky. They gasp in astonishment. And you can hear the wind blow across the video camera’s microphone, the water plash against the side of the boat.
Actually, only one girl appears in the video. The first girl holds the camera as steadily as she can from her place in the canoe, allowing us to rock in the cold, choppy water, in the loudly blowing wind, with the second girl, as if we are her friend.
R pretty much sees god behind everything, and, though I'm extremely close to her, this is an aspect of her that's a mystery to me. I believed in ghosts all childhood long, but I stopped believing after I moved out of the house where I’d lived with them. Now, in my creepy victorian house upstate, they're entirely displaced by mice and spiders.
Kythe Heller introduced my poems as a passage through thorns (I was about to read in a bookstore in Cobble Hill, before an audience of four or five people on metal chairs). I felt like she'd read an x-ray of me, of the part of me writing comes from.
If I ever finish R's shawl, I'm not sure I'll ever want to part with it. I've put so much into it. But I love R, and I've promised it to her. And it would be a VERY good practice, for me to make things and give them away. For instance, to finish this post I've titled "The Knot" and found myself tangled up in. And then to click PUBLISH.
The light, shifting from silver to gold, washes across the faces of my boys, turns the dusty glass of the back window metallic.
The view through the windshield goes opaque/transparent/opaque/transparent, a lattice of light and shadow, as we slip past the woods. I'll end with that description, possibly an example of over-writing? A little less might be more here. But I leave the extra element in, because my spirit's always entangled in the things I write: A lattice of light and shadow. See? I should've just cut that.