2 hours 56 minutes 5.65 miles
Tuesday, March 30, 2021
Monday, March 29, 2021
Saturday, March 27, 2021
Walden
At a certain season of our life we are accustomed to consider every spot as the possible site of a house. I have thus surveyed the country on every side within a dozen miles of where I live. In imagination I have bought all the farms in succession, for all were to be bought, and I knew their price. I walked over each farmer’s premises, tasted his wild apples, discoursed on husbandry with him, took his farm at his price, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind; even put a higher price on it, — took every thing but a deed of it, — took his word for his deed, for I dearly love to talk, — cultivated it, and him too to some extent, I trust, and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough, leaving him to carry it on. . . . there I might live . . . and there I did live, for an hour, a summer and a winter life; saw how I could let the years run off, buffet the winter through, and see the spring come in. . . . and then I let it lie, fallow perchance, for a man [sic] is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.
Friday, March 26, 2021
Wednesday, March 24, 2021
High Falls
a natural wonder — water, falling —
I reach by a wide clean gray gravel road
the park calls a trail, I call it a highway
a motorized wheelchair could climb
the greater the wonder the more public the show
much as I love falling water — boiling froth
slick rock & glassy spills, greenish flat rock
under four feet deep flow — I don’t want
to be here in this carved-out space
nature no longer wild, nature tidy as
a downtown street & just as well attended
once it would have been space for falling
from life too much ache to endure
once it would have been a spot
where my body would never be found
Friday, March 19, 2021
Wednesday, March 17, 2021
Moore Cove Falls & Coontree Loop hikes
Moore Cove Falls trail leads to Moore Falls, 45 minutes, 1.4 miles round trip
Coontree Loop trail goes up & up & up & down & down & down, 2 hours 10 minutes, 3.8 mile, I walked clockwise
Sunday, March 14, 2021
Art Loeb hike
2 hours, 4 miles
from the parking lot the Art Loeb trail runs along the east, then the west side of Davidson River for .75 mile, then hooks a right across another bridge & heads up a pretty steep hill
Friday, March 12, 2021
Monday, March 8, 2021
Rabbit
comes back . what comes back to me is the rabbit
streaking . no . rocketing from front yard to back
rabbit run . a rabbit running for its life . rabbit life
fear here . joy there . full measure . full grown
white tuft aft . four legs outstretched at every bound
not height but length of bound what matters . woods
to lawn to norther woods . another chase won
another day gained . shelter won . of day . of night
Monday, March 1, 2021
A River in Georgia
I set out to walk to the river crossing, an activity akin to running a finger over a scab & wanting to peel it to see whether the wound underneath has healed. The black lab races back & forth across the driveway. Beyond the dog I see a white pickup attached to a trailer loaded with large equipment. A man with a gray beard & ponytail sets down side-by-side metal ramps. On the trailer sit two large black motorcycles, a Harley & a BMW Beretta, both with fat rear tires, the Beretta’s rear fender short & high. The man may have heard my “Hey, nice bikes,” but he doesn’t respond. Tall, lean, dungareed, at least sixty, maybe a decade more. Bob walks down from the house with his pug Fancy, a double handful of curiosity. Bob has the face of a mild-mannered dealer, man of a thousand schemes, including a red barn he plans to turn into a fish camp, home to a dozen bicycles, stacks of building material, a hundred-year-old long-legged gas stove, rolls of insulation visible through an upstairs window. Lashed to a shed rail a traffic light shines green. Stolen street signs stand or lie about — caution watch for children, road closed ahead. Together Bob & the man he calls Vic unlash & unload the motorcycles, a gift from Bob’s wife’s ex-husband to his sons because the ex-husband is returning to Russia after thirty years in the US. “To be with family,” he claims. The Harley barely runs & nearly bottoms out in the mud next to the driveway. Vic drives the BMW down the driveway a stretch before turning back & parking it next to the Harley on a sheet of T1-11 inside the carport attached to the barn. To make room for the bikes Bob & I shift onto the lawn sinks, lumber, deck chairs, & a large beatup desk with two holes as if for umbrellas. Boxes & totes we push into a framed room plumbed with bathroom fixtures plus a hot water heater but without walls. Bob slides open the barn door to reveal an interior filled with old furniture. “This all has to go,” he says. “Then I’ll put down bunks, he points to a plywood counter, “kitchen here,” points again, “bathroom door. “Yeah, I’ll help you,” Vic says. While they load a 1970s turquoise VW Beetle onto the trailer, I continue down to the river crossing, a concrete slab under two to four inches of rushing water. Water I’d driven through to get here, water I’d drive through to get out. Walking back I look more closely at the VW. “That’s cherry,” I say. Bob looks puzzled even when I repeat it. Vic winces after reaching with a strap under the car to lash it down. “My back,” he says, bending forward, sideways, then back, “kinda worn out.”