Sunday, the 22nd I think. Here I am. I’m already way back by ‘my’ fencepost, and nothing’s really inspired me. There was beautiful frost – the crystals, on the grass – back by Deer Hill, but now I guess the only thing I’m thinking about is that I’m wearing a different pair of boots (well, same boots, a different pair of socks) and they’re cutting into my heel. (Hello, fencepost.) I don’t know, I guess something about the rawness of it, I’m not going to stop and fix my sock, I’m just going to think with every step.
I keep waiting for the place to inspire me. I come out here and say, ‘Hey, prairie – hey sky, hey grass, -- amaze me.’ I guess, though, it doesn’t work like that.
It’s there again, the deer. And a woodpecker and a squirrel. Same place. I heard crunching in the grass, so I took off my hat. And there it is.
It’s almost so familiar now that I feel that I don’t have anything left to say. After that first rush of newness and excitement, now just crunch crunch crunch.
Driving back now, and the crows! Shadows lifting from the fields. [long pause, small voice] I like the crows.