IN THE CENTER OF
THIS HOUSE IS AN
Or, well, I can say - I've seen rabbits running
through it, though not yet coyotes or foxes.
Though one time, not so long ago, on a road
called Tingley Lane, by the railroad tracks there,
I saw a red fox, rabid, dazed in broad daylight.
Staggering as it was, almost sideways more than
forward, you could tell that something was wrong,
immediately. I felt really, really bad about that -
like almost the odor of a burned-out church, that's
what it felt like - as I sadly watched this poor red
fox amble listlessly and drunk back into its railroad
woods. I said a prayer to the God of Nature, right
then, I did. For the fox's sake. Not so much mine
at all. I didn't know what else to do.
The determinate of a good life - that's one thing
I could never tell. A taste for helping others? Some
means of taking the burden off a fellow he or she,
whatever it takes for what you can do. To. Be. Done.
It's like shallow water : yes, you can wade out, but
you never really know how far before you too are
in trouble deep. These sorts of things are the normal
consequences of just living. They build churches and
philosophies around this stuff, but I just never know.
Like a vacuum-sealed container - how sure of it are
you ever? What's been done has already been done.
I think sometimes that people just forget the place
they live : it's not a neutral, mute nothing. No. It's
a seminal formation out of which you build your
life. So I say, get with it all or shut up. Stop wrecking
the world you live in - or I bet you too, one of these
days, will just start your own sideways wobble into
the deep, dark woods of your own made world.