APRIL 26 05

I was watching starlings in the treetops by the reservoirs in the light of the setting sun, lifting off from the branches and doing a circle in a flock and then back to the tree. How many times have I seen this in my life, in different places it is always the same, nothing about it changes. Ducks coming in at a shallow angle to land on the water. The same. Every time. And I am becoming like these things, like living people transmogrifying into stone statues slowly. I am becoming a constant around which change orbits. I am penetrating the impenetrable, by stealth it is overcoming me, it is becoming me, or I am becoming it.

Somewhere to put my hand on the bark. A good fit is a timeless fit, was ever meant to be that moment. Bootlace fungus at the roots. Further into the wood was half a pony, the rest obscured by trees.

The smell of pine and toadstools.

The hopping flea of an idea, too big for little whiskers.