Mornings

A haibun with bonus erasure for Jilly’s Days of Unreason challenge.

“Prolonged exposure to nature gives one a sort of grammatica pardo*, a wisdom of the soil.”

~ Jim Harrison,  from A Really Big Lunch

 

Mornings, I walk the narrow path by the hedge overhung with vines and blackthorn and grass stalks bent beneath the rain. I hear the earth’s slurred and muddy speech and the singing of thrushes. I walk, each morning, sometimes in the crisp of frost, the parched early heat, or the rain and lowering cloud damp. I see burrows and runs tunnelled secret in the grass, scattered feathers bones and leavings, I hear the echo of a final cry, but I am always on the edge, on the path beneath the hedge, never in the dark of night creepings and the prowlings of the stalker or the stalked.

 

Rain falls in rivers

flow in torrents leaving me

on the shore.

 

Mornings overhung with rain,

earth singing in the lowering cloud,

secret, scattered,

I hear the echo of night,

the stalker.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

8 thoughts on “Mornings”

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