December 3, 2012
A tree's dark leaves explode to black-wing squadrons in the sky like an airburst lifting all the heavy fruit away. More and more I'm seeing hydras in the green world. I know alchemy in the pot and it's not gold, it's green and grey matter— smoke curled fiddlehead in the fire of a synapse. I'll not romance away, but to stake it that green engenders other colours burst from root to germinate. Farsight eyes a mountain down records the rockiness of its whale hump brown-in-grey and the ear's too deaf to hear its echo sing. It receives nearness by degrees and grows— the Hydra’s sprung new throats!— and the Nearsight’s news is piqued by pine. Shoots erupt through rock thrushes plumb silence from the valleys adding upon limb-brush, hum and stream-spoke sound—the mound’s a mouth of syllables. Written word’s a reaping of wild seed in buried space, is the plant and farming of grey places and that’s a hydra too. The bough’s birchfruit of birds will break the earth for seeds to take and preen them for their worth. Patience! Observe a birth immaculate.