Possum Pouch

Black Stone 24

WAITING FOR THIS labor, we read books or play with K in the park. Blew dandelions yesterday, watching the tiny hair-like pieces disperse in the wind and into our hair and faces. Ate ice cream and walked under a canopy of juniper and oak along a pink granite path in Zilker park. Above us jets released white exhaust on a blue sky. K walked along, grew tired and demanded to be carried. He lives in words and imagination, pointing out the geometric shapes he sees. We sang together the alphabet song. Alone last night, reading The Education of Henry Adams, I got a sense of a kind of tendance. Dug into that secular power of observation, not restrained by the cold habits of religious binding. Such affinities are built on the solid base of the black stone. What comes into our world from that other will find this sunlight, an increasing relation by physical molecules and words. Earlier, there were mallards and wood ducks at the Central Market pond. We stood on a footbridge throwing bread into the dark green water. Reeds grew along the banks. There were men in canoes pruning back the cattails and water lilies. Turtles sunned on rocks.