Lower MacLeay Trail, Wednesday, 5:15 p.m.
The tree itself: a ramrod straight spire, its top broken unceremoniously off. Actively being gnawed, ripped, chewed from the outside in by goodness knows what, exposing huge orange swaths of fresh underbark and deeper wood.
The path: why I stopped to notice the tree itself. Across the path, straight as a road leading from the base of the tree, a swath of bark pieces, strewn precisely as though to mirror the tree itself, in memory, slowly fading as the wood decomposes into the earth, like the chalk outline of a body at a crime scene.
a woman, a notebook, awareness
Recent Mini-Moments
- observing how significantly my handwriting changes depending on my mood
- giving myself permission to write again
- burying two baby birds who didn't make it through a cold and windy night
- watching a baby bird hatch in its nest
- driving into Portland, almost weeping with a profound sense of coming home
1 comment:
You're such an incredible writer. Your words are very powerful.
I enjoyed reading your entries. :)
Looks like you love nature very much.
Niña
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