A fragment: On a winding dirt road in central Kansas, you will find dinosaur bones buried deep in the earth, grand in all their mystery. Colorless, they still hold power. Time’s swift flow is found here underground.
Night falls. You lay your head down at night on a soft pillow. You are temporarily housed inside a limestone cabin. Farm cats prowl the perimeter. A black longhair named Roman sleeps on the hood of your car throughout the night. You are safe. You are drifting. You are floating. An audible rasp elicits a shock and your whole body shivers. And then. A low hum emits a warning: use it or lose it, baby. (Or some approximation, the seed languages are too complex to translate here.) Close your eyes and picture the infinite spiral of death’s white-bowed french braid anchoring deeply into core.
What gifts have you buried?
* * * * * * *
Today: the color of sulfur, a showy nugget of wulfenite, music in the key of G, the eerie hollow hum of a theremin, and the boundary-abiding nature of pink yarrow.