All our literatures are leavings.
And so, my last day at Cove Park. I’m very sorry to be leaving this wonderful place, so conducive to deep and broad thought. My three weeks here have allowed me to orientate myself more clearly in relation to the writing that is growing out of my botanical travels. Still much to do, but at least I know which direction I’m taking.
Someone said the days here are long but the weeks are short. That’s a good way of describing the strange timelessness a community of writers and artists slip into together free from the distractions of the supposedly real world.
Last night we stood on the deck looking at a sky so clear the stars seemed almost near enough to touch. How old was the light we were seeing? Owls screeched among the birches and rowans. The beginning of autumn’s chill percolated through the air. A perfect moment to take home.