David Abbott


Sometimes the light breaks apart on the wall of my studio sometimes my foot finds a patch of mud on the path and down I go. Sometimes a sparrowhawk. Othertimes I hear musicke on the winde, the clattering auto-tune of leaves, scampering squirrels, falling ploppering water. Oftentimes the morning bursts forward in a big show of nothingness just mid-grey sulk, but I love it all the same. Blue bark, teensy mushroom worlds. If the dog would only wait I would show her but she’s an old-time explorer always testing the edges of the map. The woods are bright I’m sure there are other spirits here. I venture  a name into the trees, wait for the echo back. Say something, anything.

January 7, 2023

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