Lately I have been more aware of what I cannot capture, the much more fleeting sights: a doe’s tail receding in the leaves like a white, surprised face; the tiny fawn hiding from us in the bracken; the red-headed woodpecker bursting across the path. There is also the whole unclickable world of touch and scent: honeysuckle, pine, warm wind lifting my hair, the feel of bark and stone.
I can only take in the moments as they slip past, and I can’t share them afterwards in anything but words. Telegrams of loss: wish you were there. We stick them on the Web like flies, tie them on the ends of lines we cast towards one another. Maybe the beauty lies in the impulse to cast, and is manifest in the motion.
I like living where I can walk easily into what feels like deep green woods but also see rooftops and the big windows and decks people put on their houses to enjoy the trees. I love how, in our town, the green world intersects the village. I also love the invisible webs we climb around on, spinning tales of our days, hoping others will look up, point, and click: yes, me too, we are like each other.