the windhover

 

Unusually warm today - more than 60 degrees F - with the sun tilting toward the Oquirrhs. No sign of the kestrel in now two weeks. I miss her. I miss that careening stillness that somehow gathers whole landscapes in skywide sheets of shook foil as between the thumb and index finger of some demiurge or djinn, all the while flicking out glistening dark parabolas that go on much longer than the eye knows; that then transmute, by night, into a mountain range pulsing in a dream much later like a single, somehow, beating heart (thanks, Hopkins). The days pass quickly in her absence, as if they don’t really exist but in the way that one drags oneself out into the world of men and metal in order to survive. How far out to go? How far out to the edge do I allow myself to go before I can’t come back? When does this become hyperbole and not the state of affairs. I can barely write I’m so distracted. I can’t find her. I dreamed three or four nights ago someone slit my throat and I walked around with my chin pulled down in order to not bleed so much, walked around in my dream with my neck slack, cut from ear to ear, larynx hanging out. I dreamed I was in a cold house in the dark doing laundry. All was moist, lonely. Solitude. My dreams are dank and desperate. I feel like I’m on the precipice of something. Must pay attention to the details, to the snakes, to the clouds, to the subtle motions at the corners of my visual field. To the way the bare oak shakes in the gloaming.