“THE STAR ARCS A DIFFERENT COURSE AND MY PICTURES CHANGE IN TIME AND SPACE.” Through the clag that pulls on the foot, the drag of briar and the shove of cold, through the dun, the black copper and the long shadows, through the tired gate and the trough of sour rot, the sunken tread of tractor and tracks trodden deep by deer and dog, through the wind-slapped cheek and the chilly tear, I can feel the distance, coming, near.
A nuthatch pipes up, up there in the up, in the blindness, the thin cage of warty twigs that makes the crown grey like a ghost head, shot through with veins in chaos, all bleeding up from the big, bold body, the trunk, holding up their gravity, thick and old and…
