Excavator Tracks, Joyce Quadrangle, September 2010
Fall is in the air. The light is getting somewhat walleyed and the wind is lower, more earthbound somehow. The sound of it has changed, although the principles haven’t been altered. The sound I hear at 3am through the cracked bedroom window is what I hear in the late afternoons walking though the woods and there is so much in one and the memory of the other and yet not the reverse. That it can cut through whatever bizarre dream I awake from or through the rampant distraction of clearcut forests and upturned earth surrounding an afternoon stroll tells much of its pervasiveness and the singularity of its note.
Then there are the boundary flags, strands of dayglo nylon tape tried to tree branches. Often the only thing moving deep beneath the canopy, even in high wind, flailing like a primitive whirligig hex left behind at the frontier to try to protect the Balance. Having found the visual counterpart of the wind’s sound, one can’t help but start to look for philosophical ones.
I find I’m more consumed with these road and treeline interfaces than I ever was with the sea and land. My meager guesses as to why so far involve only the simple digestion of it, and of course the topographical drama of society v. nature will always trump nature v. nature… But that still doesn’t begin to cover it.