I was in Galena at the wood kiln this weekend

I was in Galena at the wood kiln this weekend

It was wonderful out there
Being is easier
Chop wood, carry water - so to speak

IL-20
Effortless being
Through new landscapes, one upon the next, all the same, all different.
They are all part of me.
Driving hills, curves
The city returns to sight. It is alien; I have never seen it before.
It is indifferent. It is not part of me.

Salt
Campfire heat on my face, hands, warming through my slacks, toasting my toes
Falling asleep to the sound of rushing water, creek a few yards from where I lay
Waking, snug in my tent, to the sound of rain falling
There is no time here. The sun rises, the sun sets.
We play our parts in a familiar dance
Glaze, load, stack firebrick to form the door.
Now we make adobe from clay and grass; I form thin pieces in my hands
I turn my hand onto Jay's to pass each piece, and my hand is dwarfed by his.
He, in turn, presses each piece to the door to seal it, smoothing it together.
We make fire.
Radiation from firebox door, and I turn to warm each side
Peer into the air intakes; embers glow, flame alights
Smell of heat, of wood burning; I taste it
Lean on the kiln, listen to wood crackle
Sit on a log, gaze into the night; the longer I look, the more I see
Stars are but an idea in the land where city glow rules the night sky
Pre-dawn, feel hidden from the world, at the bottom of a green bowl
We have abandoned technology in favor of a simpler life. We make fire.

Chill turns to frost. We add layers, we grow the fire.
Move our chairs farther, make hot coffee.
Gaze, stand and walk through the night, stoke
Blast of heat from a white-hot bed of embers
As I add wood, the intensity becomes painful; I'm glad to close the glowing door.
Return to sitting, gazing, radiant heat
All is still. We don't speak; perhaps we don't think.
Gaze, stoke

All returns to silence.

written: 4 May 08