- Vol. 05
- Chapter 05
Through the rain, the hollow clatter of the woodpecker’s beak tests the mettle of the forest. The wood runs down and mud sucks at my boots.
In the owl’s pallets the fine bones of field mice swallowed whole crack underfoot.
(Sticks are to teeth what bones are to tired fingers picking: I’ve enlisted sets of them jobsworths to get the whittling done down to where the sap is).
Leafless, the winter was all sound without signification.
Spring is an invocation exhuming a green etymology from the stark and apparent form of things.