Showing posts from December, 2019


A family of wild turkeys roosts in the trees around Willow Pond. Mornings, they swoop down and  muster in the field, milling around till all seven (in August there were nine) are present. Then they parade, each in its own quirky style, up to and around the house, through the gate, across the hill and into the woods, pecking for seed as they go. They cover this territory many times a day, calling out in high reedy notes and odd bark-like chirps. Their tracks quilt the snow-covered yard in a chaotic map, an image of their foraging. "Language trespasses on a white page which, like snow, creates a space of pure potentiality," writes Clive Scott in his introduction to Belgian poet Fran ç ois Jacqmin's The Book of the Snow (translated by Philip Mosley). Both page and snow, he writes, are spaces of "origins yet to be realized, where all is still intact." Tracks on a white field.      Who will make sense of      the enigmatic walk you take when