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.
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.