lure of the rustic wells from the mystery in nature.
I troll the woodlands, follow fence rows. The
canoe slides silently along the shore at dusk
in search of that elusive branch that builds a
chair around itself. Days pass. I sharpen chisels,
unload the kiln. The timbers of the barn hold
up the night sky. Then suddenly, unbidden, a lyrical
passage of vine and limb appears. I know that
what I was hunting has found me.