the swallowed grain
takes you through the dreams
of another night,
the deer meat becomes hands
strong enough to work.
– from “Inside,” by Linda Hogan
Outside the birds are already waking up, even though the sun isn’t up yet. My body is sore from a weekend working in the garden — we got ourselves connected and grounded and rooted over these long, warm days.
Write in the notebook, take care of the dog, get the day’s bread ready, work in the garden, be with the child. How is this not the work we’re supposed to be doing? All the rest is about making money to pay rent. All the rest is about living under capitalism.
Good morning to you out there!
How is it where you are? I can hear a garbage collector somewhere out on the roads, but otherwise it’s a quiet Monday, outside of a few puppy-visits here at my desk. We’ve gotten so we can have her crate door open at night and she sleeps there, stays in bed and in the room with us. When I get up, she generally stays in bed for another hour or so, and then she starts making these little trips out to see me. I can make out a small dog-shaped shadow in the dark of the office door, and hear her wagging tail nicking against the doorframe.
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