Fog On Snow
Today, I am living inside a Chinese landscape painting. The snow on the ground and the low clouds press the sky from either side and it fills with mists. The mail truck goes by in echoes sad and mysterious as the cries of that last string of worried geese flying over my street. Everything is caught in a brief pause.

I am finishing my novel. I have written a whole sheaf of new poems to complete Songs of the Sacrificial Class. I am about to start Hummingbird's Daughter II. Rumor has it that the movie will start filming much sooner than expected. I stare out the window at the fog--small birds and sturdy cardinals move like fallen leaves. Shriekback once sang, "This big hush infects the world...."

I was looking at poems today. I found this in an e.e. cummings book:

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

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