Forgive me for being the person who takes poetic questions literally - sound waves travel faster in cold air, snow absorbs sound waves like insulation, and sometimes a layer of warm air above the cold will refract the sound back to the ground. So there are a lot of ways sound can be different in the cold! The brush might affect it, too, who knows?
Ooh, storytelling is such a good way to describe it. I think of it as trying to visualize the shape of the invisible thing based on what it’s left behind. Like the paw that left the print, or the daffodils growing where the cabin was a hundred years ago.
And I have to confess that I am one of those parents, the ones who lost a toy in a windstorm and never went looking for it. My six year old’s grimy two year old toddler kiddie pool blew away in a fall windstorm, and I was like, YES. Problem solved! I marched straight in the house and told the unreasonable small person that the wind had taken the beloved kiddie pool, and it was September and we would not be replacing it, and we could talk about a new one next year. HAH!
Then one of the neighbors posted it on the neighborhood group chat, and my husband - that fool of a Took! - piped up and claimed it. I had to go get it and cram it into the truck to go on the next dump run - which is why no one has moved your kid junk. “The wind took it and we’re free!” has avoided ever meeting “this is not my problem and I’m going to ignore it” 😂
I love this last poem — and the link to your friend’s work — so much. And the idea of a fallen tree telling a story through the fox tracks in the snow is, well, 🔥.
It makes me pretty damn sad that I can’t make it to Yellowstone to be there for conversations and walks and snow and writing and thinking. Hopefully another opportunity will appear.
A writer whose Substack I follow has had a riveting ongoing saga of a neighbor’s kiddie pool that was filled but never not once used. I was reminded of the one time we biught one of the blow-up ones (same as her neighbor’s), filled it, and then watched as one of our cats launched from a tree onto the side of the pool and clawed the hell our of it. Fun times. These objects carry such weird stories with them wherever they travel.
Oh how we love our forests, its creatures and mysteries. And the mystery of the playpen! One of my viewers recently pointed out that I pay as much attention to the lofty peaks in my podcasts as to the minuscule interesting plants along the way. I love it all.
That’s exactly the feeling I experience while out in my prayer flag forest and observing various woodland animals’ tracks: something looks at me from the trees and knows me for who I am.
Beautiful poem, thanks for including, yet I find your post equally beautiful and poetic.
This is without question my all time favorite poem. It’s so rare I see someone post it. For me it all boils down to that “something” sees us and reminds us everything is connected. Of who we are. I took a week long poetry workshop with Jane several years ago and the main thing I wanted to tell her was that she is that “something” …. that she sees me even if she doesn’t know me. Great post, Chris. I think you’re one of the those “somethings” too. 💜
I read this as a meditation on noticing. It’s odd and interesting how a walk w/ a friend can tune me into details and the details string together into narratives. That’s sort of in contrast to the usual or more common description of noticing in solitude, also wonder-FULL . It’s as if we have a couple of wavelengths to our noticing frequencies. (Shit, this sounds tinfoil hat-ish. Not sure how else to describe it.) and that an other’s presence can accelerate the noticing (sometimes). That’s a nice place to be. Thanks for bringing it to our attention.
Thanks, Nigel. It's so rare that I am out with anyone else and you are right. Often as not, whoever I'm with notices something I completely missed. That is its own gift, I think.
Someone suggested your Substack site and her initials are MF. After reading one of your comments, one with a political edge, I started my own Substack site, so thank you for the inspiration. I lived in Missoula from 1976 to 1985. I was in the graduate writing program and took classes from Bill Kittredge and Richard Hugo. Missoula was a lively adventure back then. [gregleichner.substack.com]
You remind me of the winters I spent living at the edge of the woods. In the morning, after a snowfall, the field in front of the house would be crisscrossed with animal tracks of many descriptions. I remember thinking that it was remarkable how quiet the night had been and how the evidence of activity indicated a scene more likely to be witnessed at Grand Central Station!
And now, living at an apartment complex, there is still wildlife at which to wonder. A squirrel I’ve nicknamed ‘Tumbles’ entertains me when he performs somersaults on the ground and when he cavorts through the trees. A red fox occasionally saunters across the parking lot. Golly, one day a black bear was seen standing on his hind legs at an entrance door, peering into the hallway. It would have been interesting had he hit a buzzer and an unknowing tenant, possibly expecting a delivery from FedEx, had admitted him access to the mailboxes. I’m sure that the bear would have had plenty to say!
Wishing you and your family a beautiful week. May you be surrounded by warmth and an aura of coziness.
Forgive me for being the person who takes poetic questions literally - sound waves travel faster in cold air, snow absorbs sound waves like insulation, and sometimes a layer of warm air above the cold will refract the sound back to the ground. So there are a lot of ways sound can be different in the cold! The brush might affect it, too, who knows?
Ooh, storytelling is such a good way to describe it. I think of it as trying to visualize the shape of the invisible thing based on what it’s left behind. Like the paw that left the print, or the daffodils growing where the cabin was a hundred years ago.
And I have to confess that I am one of those parents, the ones who lost a toy in a windstorm and never went looking for it. My six year old’s grimy two year old toddler kiddie pool blew away in a fall windstorm, and I was like, YES. Problem solved! I marched straight in the house and told the unreasonable small person that the wind had taken the beloved kiddie pool, and it was September and we would not be replacing it, and we could talk about a new one next year. HAH!
Then one of the neighbors posted it on the neighborhood group chat, and my husband - that fool of a Took! - piped up and claimed it. I had to go get it and cram it into the truck to go on the next dump run - which is why no one has moved your kid junk. “The wind took it and we’re free!” has avoided ever meeting “this is not my problem and I’m going to ignore it” 😂
Further proof these "neighborhood group chats" are a tool of misery. :)
Thank you for the great story.
I love this last poem — and the link to your friend’s work — so much. And the idea of a fallen tree telling a story through the fox tracks in the snow is, well, 🔥.
It makes me pretty damn sad that I can’t make it to Yellowstone to be there for conversations and walks and snow and writing and thinking. Hopefully another opportunity will appear.
Thanks, Nick. I wish you could be there too!
You got me back into the woods…beside a stream…after light snow… Thnx.
Thanks, David. It's a good place to be.
Lovely at this quiet time of year who listens who looks and poetry too
So lovely....
I'll go with your hypothesis. Thank you for my morning coffee reads.
Thank you for sharing such an important ritual with me!
A writer whose Substack I follow has had a riveting ongoing saga of a neighbor’s kiddie pool that was filled but never not once used. I was reminded of the one time we biught one of the blow-up ones (same as her neighbor’s), filled it, and then watched as one of our cats launched from a tree onto the side of the pool and clawed the hell our of it. Fun times. These objects carry such weird stories with them wherever they travel.
The weirdest!
Oh how we love our forests, its creatures and mysteries. And the mystery of the playpen! One of my viewers recently pointed out that I pay as much attention to the lofty peaks in my podcasts as to the minuscule interesting plants along the way. I love it all.
Every bit of it.
That’s exactly the feeling I experience while out in my prayer flag forest and observing various woodland animals’ tracks: something looks at me from the trees and knows me for who I am.
Beautiful poem, thanks for including, yet I find your post equally beautiful and poetic.
This is without question my all time favorite poem. It’s so rare I see someone post it. For me it all boils down to that “something” sees us and reminds us everything is connected. Of who we are. I took a week long poetry workshop with Jane several years ago and the main thing I wanted to tell her was that she is that “something” …. that she sees me even if she doesn’t know me. Great post, Chris. I think you’re one of the those “somethings” too. 💜
Thank you, Mary. I would LOVE to spend some time with Jane Hirshfield.
I read this as a meditation on noticing. It’s odd and interesting how a walk w/ a friend can tune me into details and the details string together into narratives. That’s sort of in contrast to the usual or more common description of noticing in solitude, also wonder-FULL . It’s as if we have a couple of wavelengths to our noticing frequencies. (Shit, this sounds tinfoil hat-ish. Not sure how else to describe it.) and that an other’s presence can accelerate the noticing (sometimes). That’s a nice place to be. Thanks for bringing it to our attention.
Thanks, Nigel. It's so rare that I am out with anyone else and you are right. Often as not, whoever I'm with notices something I completely missed. That is its own gift, I think.
Someone suggested your Substack site and her initials are MF. After reading one of your comments, one with a political edge, I started my own Substack site, so thank you for the inspiration. I lived in Missoula from 1976 to 1985. I was in the graduate writing program and took classes from Bill Kittredge and Richard Hugo. Missoula was a lively adventure back then. [gregleichner.substack.com]
Thank you for reading, Greg. I hope you enjoy writing your newsletter as much as I have enjoyed mine.
I love reading signs like this, especially in winter. Thank you.
Hi Chris,
You remind me of the winters I spent living at the edge of the woods. In the morning, after a snowfall, the field in front of the house would be crisscrossed with animal tracks of many descriptions. I remember thinking that it was remarkable how quiet the night had been and how the evidence of activity indicated a scene more likely to be witnessed at Grand Central Station!
And now, living at an apartment complex, there is still wildlife at which to wonder. A squirrel I’ve nicknamed ‘Tumbles’ entertains me when he performs somersaults on the ground and when he cavorts through the trees. A red fox occasionally saunters across the parking lot. Golly, one day a black bear was seen standing on his hind legs at an entrance door, peering into the hallway. It would have been interesting had he hit a buzzer and an unknowing tenant, possibly expecting a delivery from FedEx, had admitted him access to the mailboxes. I’m sure that the bear would have had plenty to say!
Wishing you and your family a beautiful week. May you be surrounded by warmth and an aura of coziness.
Sincerely,
Melissa
Lovely story, Melissa. Thank you....
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