Day 678 May 11, 2022

Counting the Days

I pass the time 
by counting how many ponds 
I pass in my days. 

The black birds 
with red shoulders 
flit along the already tall reeds. 

I am speckled with bugs. 
I am a bug eater. 

There is a dead animal 
that reminds me of other dead animals, 
a pregnant opossum’s teats. 

I carry heavy things, 
which is why I eat so much, 
because I need to carry heavy things. 

I covered her with sawdust to hide the smell. 
It was a shallow grave on the side of the road 
near where I once found a broken guitar pedal, 
like a fractured manna from heaven. 

I could not lift her in the shovel. 
Not easily. 
A shovel is an awkward tool with a heavy object. 

Ducks hiding their heads under water like ostriches. 
They are making faces at the mud and tree roots. 

A pond is like a relic, 
something that remains after everything else is gone. 
A glacial footprint. 
A logger’s impasse. 
That is one day. 
Day one of many.

Leverett Pond



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