Forget what you're seeing visually, related to this here blog presentation. It was randomly changed after years of neglect. And so, here we are again. Don't even know that I approve.
In this rough country no one survives with bad teeth.
From Jim Harrison's "Cow Meditation" in his book In Search of Small Gods. Truly a gift. And true enough. Cracked teeth etch the mind with doubt and fatigue, sinking spirit and health.
Read by chance this lovely blog.
After years of trail running, thus the meditations of previous posts, I still do. Trail run. Gingerly, with broken pieces of body, spirit and mind. Always mending, one hopes. Eternally.
Let's end with more Jim. Again Small Gods, from the opening poem "I Believe."
I believe in steep steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake
in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,
the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,
use tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine . . .
The rattler escaping the cold hose,
the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see
from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling
to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.
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