A mind is a tone. What we know is known in rhythm or it is not known. We hold music we have not yet heard, and the sound of what we will do is here now. That bird outside, now, is the one Wallace Stevens wrote about near the end of his life. Do I know this because the bird is here now, or because I read Wallace Stevens and heard it in this way? Lanes descending at my feet as I cross the day.
Now somebody is using a leafblower just down the street, and I think:
Western wind, when wilt thou blow,
The small rains down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
(Anonymous, ca. 1300)
I think of this poem almost every time I open a window in winter.
Cindy is napping on the couch in this break between years, and I am reading and writing and listening to her breathing. Pen scratch on paper–bird on the sill. Sometimes everything that has ever been seems so close.