Monday | 5 October 2020
The pond seems dark and deep today, endless, like a hole excavated with terrible slowness, with centuries of labor. The water sits thick, otherwordly; too viscous, too still. The leaves, by contrast, spatter the reflection of the delineated sky, bands of mild grey and mildewy blues. Flocks of starlings, maybe, a murmuration frozen, the sound stalled in the throat, this large whole – a throat. The surface breaks, barely. More silt than yesterday, more earth. Near the center, a singe recoil fo rings spreads out from the polished center. Who’s coming?
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I spent eight weeks on the June Arthur farm in upstate New York during the COVID-19 pandemic. For some of...