Kindle Notes & Highlights
a voice—call it beauty, or the memory of reeds and fog—a place we peel back to. Translucent layers of our living. We are snakes of abandoned skins, the story of all our deaths behind us. Trail of brightness, scales to return on.
The Needs of River To be smooth below. Stones like little beds for fish. Stones like eyes matching sky. Stones like memory, colored when wet. To be what is not stopped. Seaward past the hard crag. Seaward past the dams and man. Seaward past the lonely wander. To be what is lived in. To be what is died in. Depending on the rain. To be god, or the idea of god before human intervention.
or we are kayaking Peytonia again, cutting the muck water, merging with morning fog. I should not call it muck water. Why have I seen myself more clearly in the slough than in the smoothest mirror? It has something to do with the reeds.
