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Yesterday morning before work I checked the robin’s nest and there were 4 eggs still.

But when I got home —

2 hatched eggs

I got to see the robin feed the new hatchlings last evening.

This morning, I found another egg had hatched overnight —

3 hatchlings, 1 egg with a hole in it

Assuming that last egg is a good one, it looks like there will be 4 hatchlings this year. Last year, 1 of the 4 eggs was a dud.


I had a dream a couple of weeks ago. I was walking through a farmland sort of area and entered a barn. The barn had a bookshop in it and there was a man going through the shelves of books. He pulled out a copy of The Triggering Town by Richard Hugo and I told him it was a must-buy if he wanted to fully become a poet. “It’s the best sort of manual you can get to learn how to write your poems,” I told him. Then I began thinking about what would I tell him if he were to ask me, “How do you know that? Do you write?” I felt awful at that because how can I say that I write when I can’t anymore. How can I say that I am empty and while I’ve always been a quiet person, now I am only silent, that I have no clue how to make words work, how to beat on them, how to carve on them, how to do anything with them. I can’t communicate really anymore, at any level.

Is this despair then? Is despair not anguish, but unremitting silence and inability to communicate? I don’t know anymore. Language is an awful and useless thing. We like to believe it leads to learning about one another. But I don’t know that, I don’t know that anymore and I will likely not know it.

All I know is the tight heavy weight that hangs in my chest.

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