I woke this morning, thinking of all the children going to school. It begins, the fall, the time of crisp apples, falling leaves, new shoes and notebooks, and hidden springs. I love this time of year. Jane and I talk and write this morning. She spent the weekend up north in a "shack" that was heaven. Here is her poem.
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As the crow flies
is the only way out that is not by water.
This anthology of weathered boxes set on floats
Lashed together with planks and cobbled bridges
rise and fall with tides.
Between the floorboards
the water’s changing face.
Between the walls
the marsh wren on a cattail.
Above the roof beams
the clouds knit, unravel
the geese vee and climb
the eagle coasts and settles into the pine
that marks a high point in the marsh
whose terrain is changing
even now
refusing any map
or pattern that might make it known
to land.
- Jane Flint
