One last night for dreaming in the north before heading out to the eastern part of the state. The east feels manufactured to me. I expect to open a door and find emptiness on the other side, like an old Hollywood movie set. It always feels that way, but coming from the north, from sleeping outside, from being with the kind hearted people of the north, the contrast is stark, acute. I need to take a deep breath before I go, and dream well, find roots to anchor me in my rootlessness.
It was a cold morning in the north, my breath felt solid as I stepped out of the truck. Almost drifting off in the warm cab of the truck, I’d been thinking about her. But stepping outside, the cold hit me and my thoughts turned to waiting for the birds, finding my space, looking at the telephone poles, the house, the road, waiting for the birds, and my fingers were so cold that when I adjusted the aperture I couldn’t do it by touch, I couldn’t feel the movement. I had to look at the screen, make the adjustment and hope the birds hadn’t flown too far. No, not yet.
Weary of all who come with words, words but no language
I make my way to the snow-covered island.
The untamed has no words.
The unwritten pages spread out on every side!
I come upon the tracks of deer in the snow.
Language but no words.
~ Tomas Tranströmer~ “From March 1979” in The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems