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[Eureka Springs, AR]

At times in the summer it can be difficult to read or write. Working in the yard for a couple hours lends a satisfaction similar to laying a poem into a final placement. As when the sun has lowered westward and catches the breeze to slow its rustlings down into growing shadows. What holds fecund warmth deep into night. Or maybe that's from the glass of white wine. Either way, I find myself sitting, which is something I've been told I do quite well. And quite often during such evenings, company is with a rabbit out from the ground cover who's willing to stay naturally still provided I do same. Inspiration remains but lays beyond me rather than within me and can only be held through an encompassing attention. So is it a laying to rest or a being gone out to carrot in wild ecstatic filigrees of growth? There are points on any river when all you can do is stop walking and be captive to the manifold roils of its invisible current. For how long becomes personal choice. Such moments are not practiced. They can only be enriched. .