The Long Ears Journal

I tell myself that trimming, mowing, weeding--building beds, piling stones--is not an affront to Her, though perhaps it's an amusement. The bower birds are what I always come back to, the bower birds. To have this little seed of an imagination arrange matter into patterns because it satiates something in our senses. I am not someone who will ever be fully-immersed in the wild. I want a road to hew to, some small partition of secure order from which to admire and praise the chaos of Her striving, tangling life. And there is nothing wrong with that, we don't all need to wear leaves in our hair to appreciate Her.

However, I am very tired today. And we are letting the land rest. The rabbit doesn't seem to mind that I've shorn things down, though yesterday afternoon it came right up to the patio door and looked inside for a good while. This morning I saw it sitting in the backyard in the same place that it rested during the dust storm, and then it was on the front walk. A big rabbit, quite beautiful. I don't believe it was around when I created this new journal, so my umbral lagomorph concept may have manifested something here (half-joking).