Grace, Fallen from

In the Woods: a Suite

79 IN฀THE฀WOODS:฀฀A฀SUITE฀ ฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀฀—Norton฀Island,฀Maine 1. All฀right,฀I฀pledge฀to฀the฀pine what฀small฀wonder฀I฀can฀muster. Even฀then,฀a฀certain฀quiet฀takes the฀woods.฀฀The฀optic฀nerve can฀be฀perfectly฀awake,฀pressed฀back into฀trance.฀฀Or฀so฀I฀watched the฀Whirling฀Dervishes฀once,฀thinking this฀never฀happens in฀real฀life.฀฀But฀real฀enough,฀ that฀life—whatever฀moments,฀ an฀hour฀or฀two,฀sitting in฀those฀cheap฀nosebleed฀seats, so฀high฀it฀was฀a฀tiny chain฀reaction,฀not฀quite nuclear฀down฀there.฀฀What’s a฀dervish?฀my฀friend฀asked฀ after฀several฀minutes,฀from฀her own฀splendid฀coma. 2. Whatever฀was฀between Dickinson฀and฀that฀fly:฀฀I฀want฀it. So฀I’m฀very฀still,฀my฀fly making฀its฀rounds฀around฀the฀cabin. Its฀bad฀radar฀has฀it฀kissing walls,฀bouncing฀off฀the฀ceiling. I฀know.฀฀Everyone฀gets฀tired฀though the฀pines฀put฀their฀limbs฀out pretty฀much฀straight,฀keep them฀there,฀day฀and฀night,฀a฀very large฀exception.฀฀I฀think฀what฀it฀is to฀be฀anything฀not฀human.฀฀Or฀how฀long 80 it’s฀been฀afternoon,฀hours฀now. Or฀how฀light฀only฀pleases when฀there’s฀enough฀shade in฀it.฀฀And฀the฀fly.฀฀I฀forgot about฀the฀fly. 3. Somewhere฀out฀there,฀those฀crows won’t฀shut฀up.฀฀Maybe฀they฀can’t.฀฀And฀then they฀do.฀฀Which฀is฀why฀the฀thrush—I฀think it’s฀a฀thrush—comes฀out from฀underneath฀with฀its฀weird echoy฀thing,฀huge฀now฀but—plaintive, my฀mother฀might฀have฀said. Like฀the฀moment,฀a฀week฀from฀her฀death,฀ I฀put฀the฀earphones฀on฀her฀ in฀the฀hospital฀bed,฀Brahms,฀the฀first piano฀trio—that฀cello,฀that฀rare฀violin—where out฀of฀such฀fury฀something narrows฀and฀goes฀deep.฀฀What฀is฀it, she฀said,฀tearing฀up—the฀first฀time in฀hours฀her฀speech฀was฀clear—what฀ is฀it฀about฀music? 4. In฀the฀dark฀of฀these฀woods,฀rich loam฀scent฀and฀buzz.฀฀In฀the฀dark฀of฀a฀car, no฀moon,฀only฀the฀dash฀lit฀up.฀฀In฀the฀dark of฀a฀box฀the฀cat฀finds฀to฀love,฀circling, hidden฀as฀sleep.฀฀Or฀the฀moth’s฀dark,฀where wool฀disappears.฀฀Of฀childhood฀there, wet฀scarves฀in฀the฀classroom,฀radiator steam,฀rain฀dark฀and฀snow฀dark,฀past afternoon.฀฀In฀the฀dark of฀old฀engravings,฀the฀ancient฀mariner 81 asleep฀on฀the฀deck,฀intricate฀lines make฀sky,฀make฀endless฀the฀sea฀that has฀always฀been฀endless,฀and฀the฀few฀gulls, their฀darkness฀is฀flight.฀฀In฀the฀dark of฀a฀closed฀hand,฀a฀coin฀there฀or฀a฀stone or฀a฀key.฀฀The฀door฀takes it฀dark,฀small฀turn฀and฀a฀click and฀a฀quiet.฀฀And฀that house,฀oh฀that฀house,฀before any฀light฀claims฀it. ...