thomas arthur

Here in rural America the spring rains bring a fine mist over everything, green hills are imbued with a luster-like yellow which comes across as a brilliant, radiant green. There is an orchard across the street. Covered bridges, calico cats, and fresh cream. The chickadee is alive with her call. Tics are out in abundance after a rather mild winter, they come crawling in on the dogs, the cats. You find them on your arm or in your hair. Not just leeches, but destroyers of the nerves and joints. Yet there are delicate longings as well. Farm house windows stay open in the night, sweet moans drift over the meadows. The stars are close in all their distance, showering the night with myth. There is talk of revolution, but authority is strong and determined. They keep us fractured through a media devoted to deception and sleight of hand. Locally, there is more freedom. To play amongst the birch forests, the pines. To swim the gushing rivers, to taste the wild blueberry, the baked rhubarb pie. The ocean, from here, is 150 miles as the crow flies. You should know which waterways will take you there. Land is given life by waters. To dip naked into the stream or lake is the only pastime worth mentioning.

The sky in America takes on different aspects depending on where in the country you are. Short skies and long skies, dark skies and bright skies. Constellations of so many things. Spirit in the clouds. Once there was a storm, it came rolling down the valley. A band of horses stood in the middle of a meadow. Just a meadow I happened to be traveling by. Grass and wildflowers. There were twelve horses in total standing in a perfect circle, the whole group facing each other. And the rain was falling in sheets and lines. Patter on the car roof. Suddenly, while I was watching this formation, a bolt of lightning struck the center of the circle, sending all the strange horses scattering in different directions. I was also born on the full moon, when the St. John's Wort was blooming.