Poem for Sunday and Seneca Creek State Park

Baudelaire in Airports
By Amy King

Will my arm be enough to reach you?
On whose side is indecision?
You are the mother of material travel,
even in the form of a shoeless child.
It is difficult to place time--especially here.
You aren't now, and you don't come here.
The other sameness, an other of the same
in the window before take off.
So she learned past such things the echo.
With the same eye from windows one watches
a person with umbrella, sleek and pointed,
seek sky from its wet roof. As if the bitter low
would be a woman with whiskers,
her eyes desperate, street-view, alone.
How does this view of everything arc the moon?
If a mosquito lands, what happens to the one who flew?
She gives over to the site of red,
another selfless pooling. A hungry pond.
The painting of the person also wears mobile eggs,
and the woman returns to wheat fields
to drink goat's milk for her meal and bath.
That the body harbors more than combination,
that we are more than alchemy's process,
that they are agents and actors incognito,
is visible only to those strolling on avenues on lost
streets Parisian, no longer able to be found.

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Saturday was as gorgeous as most of the rest of the week, so after Adam got back from cross country practice and we took him to the bank and post office for college application-related mailings, we decided to go hike at Seneca Creek State Park for a while. The turtles in the lake already seem to be in hiding, as do the frogs, though we saw lots of crickets and birds and evidence that deer and beavers had been around. Here are some squirrels, crows, caterpillars, and what I think may be a juvenile turkey vulture:

















Adam had a lot of homework and SAT prep to do in the evening, so we had toad-in-a-hole and then a quiet evening, watching what college football there was (Maryland doesn't play this weekend), then The White Queen, which is making it really hard to root for anyone except maybe Anne whose frequent anger seems the most justified and the least obnoxious. I try to feel sorry for Margaret, but I'm so sure she's going to kill the princes in the tower that I can't. What a twist it would be in this version if it was Richard after all!