Possum Pouch

Black Stone 12

"ANY DAY NOW," we say, expecting the first pangs and plug to drop. K kisses me, holds my head in his hands a moment. A black buzzard flew over the house. "Let's follow it," he said. And so we did, sort of. Walked down Rountree adjacent to Boggy Creek, checking the sky through bare branches. Crossed Manor St. then headed back east down railroad tracks. A cold wind blew as we walked and K picked up white gravel, examining each piece carefully. First goose grass of the year grew up in patches close to the woods. Abandoned appliances stood out starkly on graffiti-covered concrete slabs. This is a period of waiting, self-scrutiny and preparation. I cherish these Puritanical habits of inwardness, much as I admire the old ways of magicized landscapes and prophecies in voices of old women. The cunning men and old wizened herbalists of England must have been something, their conjuring of spirits through matter a kind of violent necessity. What minds those first Europeans must have brought to this continent, this "collection of cosmologies." How many years does it take to absorb the power of a landmass? We're still finding out, I guess. K spits a rock from his mouth.