Mary
"You are exactly where you are supposed to be." That's what part of Mary's mind tells her as she's standing on the brink of continual change, orange white torrents of feeling plowing through the fields of her body. Yes, to herself she responds, for where else could i be but where i am. The waters settle, the birds nestle and lightly hum into the air.
Mary continues her walk, leaves the oleander bush which had sucked out all her attention and returned it in full with a poem she'd write, find it published in the atlantic, and only three months later having her poetics collection politely confident in the publishers press of penguin. For now she'd scribble oleander and an indiscernible word to her left palm wrist.
Off again, in the swirl of petals up into the sun. She strides to the beat of her own heart, her own heart to the beat of the earth's, given in everlasting pulse. Late autumn yellows crackle under barefoot, wet blue grass fizzles in her step and a pine needle nicely pokes her left middle third toe. There's the geese feces for which she gave up avoiding her step many months and maybe up to a year or quite possibly a few now. It's hard to tell time in the tome of isolation. Pandemic's done that to a person or two or three.
This lake's remained the same anyhow. Any way she can arrive here she will, having driven an old bike at midnight when she lost her car and found her mind in the accident. No mind resides in an intellect, she'd think, so surely she's all soul in the head. Impulsive lover she is. Sleeping at the lakeside today's early winter.
This is her sanctuary. The geese know her call. A triple whistle call which gets them all coming and sometimes they'll lay side by side and nestle in the clover grass, they even share dreams. The lake is called Kokopelli and Kokopelli is more pond than lake anyway she gave it the name and classification of lake because she liked it that way and anyway it's nature's and it's everybody's own. There's a particular goose called Sally and she's got a broken leg. She'll waddle close when Mary's writing an elegy to a leaf and Sally will sleep right beside her.
On one occasion the day's last sun shining colors threw a great sky ball for Mary and the geese, 17 of them quite exactly for Mary was always counting things.
Mary was blonde in summer and brown haired in winter, except this winter she bleached her hair so she's all blonde except for the right side of her head where the color did not take. Today she wears comfy camo pants, tight at the waist up to her bellybutton and loose down the pant leg. In the grass her legs disappear! She's a reddish mahogany over-shirt, heavy and comfy like a continual blanket one wears around their house: Mary's house is nature of course. Oh and she always has many pens and a notebook on her. Often she goes on a walk but walks little, stands in one place with a far off look that draws you so near.
That sunset evening the 17 geese and her and the angels listing their floating toes over the rippled lake water, well they all had a great time. The angels threw a great invisible ball on the Kokopelli lake, only with the ripples and wind whispers of their jubilee she knew what was going on. The angels would gather round sunset, the birds would sing, the angels would dance on the lake water and Mary would write, brought to earth by the geese, soaring in heaven with the angelic movement. She told everybody!! I mean why else was she always writing these things down if not that someone should truthfully hear.
Truthfully Mary had her fill at the lake for today, she did a last whistle call goodbye for the geese, collected a white feather which fit finely in her satin notebook. She noticed the pine tree creak.