Photo taken on the Willamette River at Toe Island (Portland, OR)
Thursday, September 5, 2024
I heard trees grow by the whistling breeze off the feather grass weeds. Roots expand by the sweeping debris of decaying leaves. How is fall so soon when the branches undress themselves to where they’re bare-boned, skinned, and naked through the coldest time of year?
Must we dress a tree through the imagination of art and absurdity—as if it’ll shiver its frail frame and curdle back into bed when sick? I can only assume that the sounds of tree growth are the collective moanings of empaths.
…an endearing song commencing dusk. Or the end of our annual peak of daylight.
– Budd
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