Fields


 

Me and my downward dog have some serious stretching to do before the market wakes. Before the market wakes, we open our eyes and stare out the window, where morning has not occurred to the mammals but the fowl are restive already. Craking, clicking, clacking, honking, chittering; beating sounds rise from the morning twilight and hang in the air, clack, click, honk, chitter. A bitter cold hovers above the warmth of sound, pressing down, cold ground, old ground, rolling over in the comforter, covering the mountain shoulders, shuddering back into the warm down spread. The warm dawn spreads slowly at first, after the snow showers, after the winds, and rises like a surprise resurrection, like an unexpected birthday party, and there the show of hands, of delphiniums, of daffodils, rise up again, tentatively answers a question that has not yet been asked.

Downward dog and me stretch and roll through the belly, the spine, on the gritty floor in front of the fire and then lie flat, staring at the ceiling with arms held out, ready for crucifixion or the shining oil of loss on a puddle in the middle of some pitted street. Downward dog and me stretch and sigh and rise up into the future with cobra, hang silently in trees, unseen. The weather waits, coiled, until we forget, then brings us down again, too soon warm, too late to hibernate. There is a bell that rings in the changing woods, a deep bell that rings, calling the birds, the seedlings, the writhing pink worm to keep moving; athetoid, it turns in upon itself until suddenly a reaching branch turns white, blush, and bleeding green. Time for market, time to pull on socks and drink tea, time to watch the spring birds rise up and leave the wintering fields.

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