Dusk comes so late now that days seem luxurious, to be sprawled into with every limb. All kinds of creatures are coming out of their lairs to see the sun. Myself included. Making has felt more like a practice of honoring the seasonal transition-- fermenting vegetables, cleaning, starting seeds, reading and writing in public. I had someone ask "Oh, are you writing poetry?" At first I wasn't sure how to answer because I never think of my text like a poem on a page. But it seemed easiest to just say "uh-huh" and close my notebook, feeling suddenly shy that they might read.
And the weeks have been full of all sorts of the unexpected. Bears climbing trees. Dressing 11 chickens as a part of a class that I was helping to facilitate. Neighborhood children with chalk and a whole street as a canvas. It feels like everyone is getting ready for something, and forgetting to sleep.
flute and text by SHM, with found sound
photos by SHM