Archive
07/21/08 - (1)
My Big Woods This humid five-thirty Monday afternoon (Which is cooling down, from its torrid hundred degrees, With this unexpected, ephemeral, breeze-driven drizzle),
I slip into Bailey's Woods, unnoticed, alone, And disappear, submissively, Into its legendary suspension of disbelief.
Once within its magical, near-soundless surrounds, I rediscover the root-crosshatched path, The same one I remember running, back in my forties —
A quarter of a century ago — When my body and mind were considerably quicker, Infinitely leaner, more muscular, if not as wise.
Now, though I'm in a jogging outfit, I choose to walk; It's the prudent thing to do. After all, who knows? I can still recall my two falls,
Both occurring in these very same purlieus, Each bequeathing me a sprained ankle And a painful, perilous three-hundred-mile drive home.
Blessed is this moderating rain, kissing the leaves. Breathing comes easily. Ceaselessly along, drawn by labyrinthine gravity, I go.
Shadows and slanting sun shafts lead the way. I'm not afraid of the roots, shifting like snakes; They know I'm not easy prey, this time in my life.
Oh, the sense of place that embraces me, just now. Am I really partaking of this Faulknerian solitude? Perhaps this is a dream that'll lose itself, in here.
Suddenly, I emerge, at the southern edge of Rowan Oak. I have the grounds entirely to myself. No six in the evening has ever seemed sweeter.
Not out of breath yet panting slightly, sweating, I make my rounds of the abandoned Greek Revival edifice, Knowing better than to expect anyone to greet this guest.
With utter respect for the dead, I give passing nod to the stable, the post-oak barn, The curing shed, made of red bricks fired on the premises,
Dating back to 1848, When the Shegog mansion was raised from the wilderness, On the outskirts of Oxford/Jefferson, Lafayette/Yoknapatawpha.
Before Mammy Callie's shack, I stop in my tracks. Just west of me, in the back pasture, A full-grown deer materializes, out of the dense brush,
And instinctively registers my awestruck presence, Dismisses me as nonpredatory, Pretends nonchalance, for an endless minute
(While I reprise the blood-ritual hunt, in the Big Woods, In which Sam Fathers anoints Ike McCaslin's manhood), Before bounding off, into a nearby thicket.
I gasp, from the epiphany that's seized me. Unexpectedly, a second deer materializes, in my vision, Lingers, for another infinite minute, then disappears,
Just as I did, an hour earlier, into Bailey's Woods. And the dream is as near to complete As it's ever going to be.
07/21/08 - (1)
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