Two nights before the summer solstice

Bart Wolffe


Under the eaves of a wooden shack sheltering to the nurture of the dripping sky that finds its way down via the yew’s hanging branch, I am in the picture framed by the timber struts and the barrels bordering the edge where the forest falls and begins its outward sprawl of silence, soaking in the wet summer two nights before the coming solstice. There is a patter from so many separate tongues which articulate wordlessly.

Moon has not risen yet, still late birds sound between the spaces afforded by the green. The shape of our human occupation is being eroded by moss and encroaching nettles. I rest against a leaning plank to enjoy the outdoor sport of inaction, allowing smoke to drift, feel the bandages of time wrap and unravel simultaneously. Views are at odds with patterns, the irregularity of a rotting structure in…

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