On the Taking of Notes:
An image becomes treasure, passed from mind to mind. We four are collectors of images.
One of us find bark, one finds leaves encased in ice. I write, 'encased in eyes'. Someone finds ice in water. Someone else notices the fog coming fast through the valley.
Item: dock stem rising from snow. Black-red shadow puppet, explosively notched and zing-rippling. Leaves hanging small, spriteish, black leaf soulish, vaguely hellish, hot and vibrant.
Item: meadow grass. Disconsolate, lonely and drooping.
Item: thistle.
Item: spine.
Snow like white linen.
We take nothing sappy, only what the year has already discarded. As we look at our images, turn them over, warm them, they are revivified, born to us. We exchange our time for their lives, our lives for theirs.
The snow turns from blue to white to blue again, as the sun rises and sets. We give our day to the snow and in return it gives itself to us.
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