from Odysseus Au Dessus De La Melée

In that mimesis of soul-flight, passengering on a summer morning past the rush-hour pedestrians in the sunshine, past the Jurassic dumptrucks with tires higher than cars, the powershovels, the bared ranges of rocks, the wonderful deep yellow of those vehicles, and then suddenly on the curve down to Goldstream and mere majestic West coast summer Nature, and up then about a hundred feet above a coastal cedar forest baby-shit luminous yellow in the sunshine, above the hoary old wolf trees of the Pacific Northwest coast.

Then at the Gov’s mansion grounds in late May, thought of Nietzsche’s line about speaking not in words, but in lightning bolts. Did a vocal imitation, “sssssssssrrr... pkkkhhh!”--lousy picture of a kid’s imitation of a bomb. But as I made the bomb sound, right about where I aimed it suddenly saw a wet red worm crawl in the green grass. A little later or on another afternoon I watched crows and smaller birds working the field for such worms. Crows with hands behind their backs, the empty-hand proferrment of the sleight-of hander. Sleight of wing. I watched a toss of them, a small murder, stretch a curve in to a condominium of gesticulating oaks over the wall of the Mansion Grounds off Lotbiniere, where I have taken to jumping the fence to sit in a little niche of white hay with the insects to have a bit of nature. Over and in they winged old black ballet to beautifully take perches/purchase. They have never bought anything in their lives.

Guys in dark overalls working the furrows. Except they hopped across, threw both legs in a hop if they were in a hurry, under the wing-gear. Criss-cross farmer’s hands, catching worms who come up for... what? What’s in it for the worms to deliver themselves to the sunny feeding plate?

Geese were flying high on the migration range, and beyond them farther migrations yet in the starry mystery; chickens jump, flap across the chicken yard in the same direction as that high honking arrowhead. Hearts are urging, hurting. I think they need some information, and a backing to their longing from some authority--it would be the bardic, the artistic authority, since the others are playing games as always with ordnance, knives, pitchforks, pension funds. Not all. The time of the humanities is coming, repeats a musical refrain. Can you believe it?