I missed writing on wren day this year. But I saw a wren, Sinaloa perhaps?, on St. Stephen’s Day. In the foothills of the Sierra Madre.
I don’t think I can write anymore, at least not now. The law, law school, is killing, or, perhaps just imprisoning, that piece of me for the time being. This will be a stumbling, bumbling little post—suffer through it or not. It’s my clinging for now.
On November 9 I apologized to my kids. “I’m sorry for this,” I said. It was only to be expected, they thought but they didn’t say.
At least I finally got them to Álamos, Sonora, Mexico this year, before the “wall” goes up. Elegant quail and magpie jays, turkey vultures and caracaras, a host of warblers, a cavalcade of hummers, etcho reaching above their nurse trees, mesquite, amapa, kapok, the selenopid spiders. A wren. Sinaloa perhaps.
Everything that lives is light
I remembered what I once thought I was—the intensity with which I hunted—and I felt an almost clinical distance.
Here is a ghost
Everywhere are ghosts. The imprint on the land. I’ve been haunted forever but imperceptibly at first. Now I can make out their features as they stand in the corner of my bedroom, as they perch in the trees of my garden, as they shape the earth with something that perhaps was, but is now forever being lost.
My kids do not seem to have eyes so clouded by spirits. So this is a good thing.
I’m sorry. I say. But not always out loud.
How is it/ that we’re faced again
I’d be contending with the silent spirits whether or not we found ourselves enmired. But. I used to be able to escape my inside haunting with a little outside. Now the wren is being hunted everywhere—by the quick click of the thermostat upwards, by the finger on the trigger, by the cut cut cutting. My inside and my outside are equally full of ghosts.
You person who died last year. You lucky son of a bitch to miss all this.
Or so I think sometimes. At least we are not in the time of Tiberus Gracchus. At least no one’s been murdered by a chair.
Or not yet.
Anyway. I’m sorry. To you as well for reading these tangled words. Blame the law–murderer or captor–.
Those dead wrens, those ghosts. And the living wrens too.
To kill the king. For renewal and pennies.
The man in the golden palace looks out the window with envy and plots to take everything apart. Nothing shall fly higher than he. No one shall make unless he destroys. Nothing but in a mirror image of himself.
While all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds
I hope in heaven ye soul will rest
the time for feeling will not last.
Quotes from Elizabeth Robinson, Sina Queyras, Rachel Loden, William Butler Yeats, the Wren Boys Song, and finally Olivia Laing