to Jan LaPerle You wouldn't believe the birds here, wild spinnings after so many months of cold—I can scarcely think for all the noise they make, but maybe that's a blessing since I'm never sure what thoughts have brought me anyway. Strange companions. Broken things, really. I try to give a few to you in hope our worlds might overlap or be more clearly understood. I learned from Dickinson that thoughts remain unfinished—from where or why they come no one can say. Just up the hill an ash tree leans away from where the others reach. I've studied it a decade now. I, too, lean away from where the day is heading. From the one, most likely, I'll become. From every understanding I have found and entertained. And not because I am dissatisfied and not because the thoughts I know are weary, small, or lacking purpose. I guess because they feel like guesses in the end. I guess because they're trapped by what they can't imagine, trapped by what's in front of them, trapped by words, the only form they take. What if we, in holding who we think we are, completely miss the self we might have come to be? What other questions might have framed our joys and fears? I'm not asking for an answer, nor am I asking to be mended by a moment's trace of what our being here will mean. I guess I'm asking if the noise we make will fill the sky. Is thought the closest we can get to being other than the self that has the thought? Is I ever you?
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