Music is the Substance

with Ma. and Bofedal                      

Land sky mountain water stream field forest.  Abandoning the linear, you get lost wandering a world of edges.  A world of margins and peripheries, boundaries and borders, thresholds and liminalities.  A string drones, tensed so tightly it can be only heard.  

You are at a piercing precipice when the sound shows you to a bed of golden yarrow and lace baking in autumnal sun.  I feel that the language I live in does not have a word for this becoming, that the people I live among do not have an inkling what it is.  

You traverse the decrepit suspension bridge of downed tree limbs and their vines, the spindly sinews of crunchy brown fiber, rough and crackling, to where everything meets: a canopy, a prairie; a sun, a moon; a breeze, a shelter; a bird, a snake; a corn field, a forest; a grave, a garden.