The dreary weather began its transformation as I chose a different road to drive home from yoga. I walked the dog in the gully instead of the path. Wearing boots, I could walk in the mud looking for images twisted among the vines. The day was so wet and grey the yellow of winter fields and the fog-obscured distant view blossomed. In the still pond only the close, dark trees were reflected, the distant views lost to mystery. I am an image picker.
I like the ripe ones.
the ones at the ends of the listing limbs.
--Charles Wright, from 23, in Littlefoot (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2007)