Since the sky is over all things, its divisions define the world that it encompasses. At high noon, when the heavens are cloudless, the sky unifies the world and shows all things in a bright, consistent light. But if it is cloudy or stormy, the sky makes of the world a pattern of bright and dark, a maze of differing intensities. At dawn or sunset, the sky partitions the world into three different landscapes correlated to the three zones displayed overhead. There is a sunrise (or sunset) zone, a clear zenith that vibrates with the energy of the sun rising (or setting as the case may be), and, at the other horizon, an echo or reflection of the sunrise (or sunset) painted against the opposing ramparts of the heavens. If you go abroad at sunset, your west will be colored by sun's light cast obliquely over the horizon. Overhead, the sky will be a colorless ether for the transmission of light. And your east will echo the west's fanfare, albeit as a diminished chord or in a minor key. For each part of the sky, there will be a corresponding reality in the world and within you as well...
The last day of November was temperate and, at sunset, I walked my dog on the path that leads through the corporate woods. From a city park with playgrounds and befouled waste containers, the asphalt pathway leads along the edge of woods owned by the Hormel Company, passing the parking lot of an inscrutable factory satellite to the main slaughterhouse across the freeway, and, then, descends a slight hill to enter the forest. There is a creek, or several creeks crookedly joined together in the woods and the low-lying ground floods depositing masses of flotsam against fallen trees and leaving remnants of river stalled in ponds the shape of a flexed finger. Bends in the creek are abraded by the current into flat sandy beaches and, at the end of the trail, an immaculate brick box, shaped like a sentry-post, switches electrical current from one voltage to another, the structure enigmatically planted at the end of a gravel road that is always barricaded. Another hundred yards and, the asphalt trail emerges from the woods at a stark, level railroad crossing and, across the county highway, there is another city park with bleachers and softball fields, a junkyard next to the road with tires barbarically displayed like captured shields,then, a tavern frequented by motorcycle gangs in the summer and snowmobilers in the winter, and, a half-mile to the north, the steep platform and terraces of a power plant with walls painted the color of a sunflower.
I brought the dog to the pathway late in the afternoon. Deer made the walk memorable. In the city park, just beyond the slide and swings of the playground, a solitary deer danced across the edge of the woods, paused to sniff the air, and, then, ambled into the complex and manifold entrapments of the autumnal forest. For a long time, I could see the deer's white-tail, a 40 watt light bulb, bouncing a little in the shadowy woods as the deer moved from place to place. It was the last day of the firearm hunting season and, far away, I heard the report of rifles, a grim thudding sound like big rocks being thrown against a heap of other big rocks. The dog didn't notice the deer. She put her nose to the ground and followed other scents.
At the far end of the trail, beyond the creeks and the immaculate brick blockhouse, I saw a half dozen deer, moving with great grace and dignity, across the clearing where the path eased over the railroad crossing. It was growing dark and the deer were mostly shadowy figures, gaunt-looking four-legged silhouettes against the grey gloom. The dog sensed the deer and stood peering at them, uncertain whether to be pursue or flee. In single file, the deer walked to the north, toward the ramparts of the powerplant. I saw their profiles against the sere brown field, ears like radar-dishes extended from their heads, shoulders slightly twitching as they seemed to graze at the air.
A few scattered clouds to the east glowed with a faint salmon colored light. The clouds decorated the sky above the trees and bramblebrush that were fast becoming a monochrome labyrinth, entangled brown highlighted here and there with red "No Trespassing" signs, markers that stood like huntsmen vigilant in the corners of the landscape. A murder of crows huddled together in trees overhanging the river, catcalling to one another with voices both jovial and derisive. Overhead, I heard geese flying in formation, cackling with a sound like a rusty metal hinge opening and shutting. At the bends in the creek, the water was lidded with ice, dull silver that didn't reflect the trees and the sky as clearly as the cold, open expanses where the river was deeper. I stood for a moment looking at the ice edging the stream, comparing the reflections inverted in the open water against their vague, impressionistic counterparts smeared against the lenses of ice. The sky showed in the water, brighter by far than the earth and illuminating the ice so that it glinted dully and, to the west where the sun had set, the heavens held a radiant archipelago of clouds, frothy pink like cotton candy at the county fair, bays and harbors cupping the cold blue of the sky. The clouds were pretty but the most beautiful colors in the west were those ceramic-smooth, cold sky-harbors, washed and tempered by the blue of the night, brushing up against islands made of pink cotton candy.
By now, it was quiet in the woods. The crows had fallen silent and the geese were departed to some other brighter sky. Suddenly, the crack of a rifle shot split the air, so close and resonant that I winced and felt my muscles urging me to fall forward, to take cover. The dog stopped dead in her tracks. The sound was something like a physical pang, a burst of pain, and I thought of the deer that I had seen vigilant in the corn stubble looking toward me with their dark eyes.
Time to hurry. I hastened toward the edge of the woods where lights shown over factory's empty parking lot. Among the trees, a limb fell. Something shuddered and creaked. the dog paused again, her ears flat against her skull. "What is that?" I asked. My dog retreated behind my body, pulling my shoulder into an awkward position with her leash.
Where the trail climbed toward the woods edging the parking lot, a big black dog trotted onto the path. The dog turned for a moment and stared down the path toward us, nose lifted to the air, perhaps, scenting the death-stench from the slaughterhouse. The dog was black as night, a shadow athwart the path. I had the sense that there was no avoiding this dog, that the beast stood ahead of me, imminent and dense and menacing. No matter where I went or how swiftly I moved, the dog would be there, waiting, watching, lurking, a darkness in the darkness. Soundlessly, the dog coursed ahead of us, hurrying along the center of the trail. For an instant, in the light pooling under the lampposts at the fenced parking lot, I saw the dog's shadowy form take shape: shoulders, black breast like a anvil, head cocked against the chain-link fence, powerful crooked legs that padded along as the animal trotted down the trail.
We watched the dog for a few seconds. The leash in my hand trembled. My dog made a faint whining sound, quietly as if she were afraid of being overheard.
When the black animal had vanished, I gingerly led my dog up the trail. When a dog is young and powerful, the animal's gait leaves only two tracks, one spaced a little behind and adjacent to the other: a trotting dog, puts her right rear paw exactly where she has placed her right front paw and this pattern is the same for the dog's left legs and, therefore, a dog's trail in the snow or mud is marked by a hopping pattern, two marks instead of four since the paws follow one another perfectly. Where the asphalt trail sloped upward, I smelled a faint reek of burning, hot tar: the dog's paw prints were seared into the asphalt. Each paw had melted a fan-shaped mark, serrated with claw-prints onto the trail. The melted tar was puddled, stinking of bitumen, and a faint haze of steam rose from the place where the black dog had impressed her mark into the pathway on which I was walking.
2.
Since the sky is over all things, its divisions define the world that it encompasses...
The last day of November was temperate and, at sunset, I walked my dog on the path that leads through the corporate woods. From a city park with playgrounds and befouled waste containers, the asphalt pathway leads along the edge of woods owned by the Hormel Company, passing the parking lot of an inscrutable factory satellite to the main slaughterhouse across the freeway, and, then, descends a slight hill to enter the forest. In the trees, there is a stream and bends in the creek are abraded by the current into flat sandy beaches and, at the end of the trail, an immaculate brick box, shaped like a sentry-post, switches electrical current from one voltage to another, the structure enigmatically planted at the end of a gravel road that is always barricaded. Another hundred yards and, the asphalt trail emerges from the woods at a stark, level railroad crossing and, across the county highway, there is another city park with bleachers and softball fields, a junkyard next to the road with tires barbarically displayed like captured shields,then, a tavern frequented by motorcycle gangs in the summer and snowmobilers in the winter, and, a half-mile to the north, the steep platform and terraces of a power plant with walls painted the color of a sunflower.
I brought the dog to the pathway late in the afternoon. In the city park, just beyond the slide and swings of the playground, a solitary deer danced across the edge of the woods, paused to sniff the air, and, then, ambled into the complex and manifold entrapments of the autumnal forest. For a long time, I could see the deer's white-tail, a 40 watt light bulb, bouncing a little in the shadowy woods as the deer moved from place to place. The dog didn't notice the deer. She put her nose to the ground and followed other scents.
At the far end of the trail, beyond the creeks and the immaculate brick blockhouse, I saw a half dozen deer, moving with great grace and dignity, across the clearing where the path eased over the railroad crossing. The dog sensed the deer and stood peering at them, uncertain whether to be pursue or flee. In single file, the deer walked to the north, toward the ramparts of the powerplant.
A few scattered clouds to the east glowed with a faint salmon colored light. The clouds decorated the sky above the trees and bramblebrush that were fast becoming a monochrome labyrinth, entangled brown highlighted here and there with red "No Trespassing" signs, markers that stood like huntsmen vigilant in the corners of the landscape. Overhead, I heard geese flying in formation, cackling with a sound like a rusty metal hinge opening and shutting. At the bends in the creek, the water was lidded with ice, dull silver that didn't reflect the trees and the sky as clearly as the cold, open expanses where the river was deeper, The sky showed in the water, brighter by far than the earth and illuminating the ice so that it glinted dully and, to the west where the sun had set, the heavens held a radiant archipelago of clouds, frothy pink like cotton candy at the county fair, bays and harbors cupping the cold blue of the sky. The clouds were pretty but the most beautiful colors in the west were those ceramic-smooth, cold sky-harbors, washed and tempered by the blue of the night, brushing up against islands made of pink cotton candy.
The crows had fallen silent and the geese were departed to some other brighter sky. Suddenly, the crack of a rifle shot split the air, so close and resonant that I winced and felt my muscles urging me to fall forward, to take cover. The sound was something like a physical pang, a burst of pain, and I thought of the deer that I had seen vigilant in the corn stubble looking toward me with their dark eyes.
Time to hurry. Among the trees, a limb fell. Something shuddered and creaked. "What is that?" I asked. My dog retreated behind my body, pulling my shoulder into an awkward position with her leash.
Where the trail climbed toward the woods edging the parking lot, a big black dog trotted onto the path. The dog turned for a moment and stared down the path toward us, nose lifted to the air, perhaps, scenting the death-stench from the slaughterhouse. The dog was black as night, a shadow athwart the path. I had the sense that there was no avoiding this dog, that the beast stood ahead of me, imminent and dense and menacing. No matter where I went or how swiftly I moved, the dog would be there, waiting, watching, lurking, a darkness in the darkness. Soundlessly, the dog coursed ahead of us, hurrying along the center of the trail. For an instant, in the light pooling under the lampposts at the fenced parking lot, I saw the dog's shadowy form take shape: shoulders, black breast like a anvil, head cocked against the chain-link fence, powerful crooked legs that padded along as the animal trotted down the trail.
We watched the dog for a few seconds. The leash in my hand trembled.
When the black animal had vanished, I gingerly led my dog up the trail. When a dog is young and powerful, the animal's gait leaves only two tracks, one spaced a little behind and adjacent to the other: a trotting dog, puts her right rear paw exactly where she has placed her right front paw and this pattern is the same for the dog's left legs and, therefore, a dog's trail in the snow or mud is marked by a hopping pattern, two marks instead of four since the paws follow one another perfectly. Each of the black dog's paws had melted a fan-shaped mark, serrated with claw-prints onto the trail. The melted tar was puddled, stinking of bitumen, and a faint haze of steam rose from the place where the black dog had impressed her mark into the pathway on which I was walking.
3.
Since the sky is over all thintgs, its division define the world...
The last day of November was temperate and, at sunset, I walked my dog on the path that leads through the corporate woods. From a city park with playgrounds and befouled waste containers, the asphalt pathway leads along the edge of woods owned by the Hormel Company, passing the parking lot of an inscrutable factory satellite to the main slaughterhouse across the freeway, and, then, descends a slight hill to enter the forest. At its other end, the asphalt trail emerges from the woods at a stark, level railroad crossing and, across the county highway, there is another city park with bleachers and softball fields, a junkyard next to the road with tires barbarically displayed like captured shields,then, a tavern frequented by motorcycle gangs in the summer and snowmobilers in the winter, and, a half-mile to the north, the steep platform and terraces of a power plant with walls painted the color of a sunflower.
I brought the dog to the pathway late in the afternoon as a deer fled into the woods. For a long time, I could see the deer's white-tail, a 40 watt light bulb, bouncing a little in the shadowy woods as the deer moved from place to place. The dog didn't notice the deer.
At the far end of the trail, beyond the creeks and the immaculate brick blockhouse, I saw a half dozen deer, moving with great grace and dignity, across the clearing where the path eased over the railroad crossing. The dog sensed the deer and stood peering at them, uncertain whether to be pursue or flee. In single file, the deer walked to the north, toward the ramparts of the powerplant.
The clouds decorated the sky above the trees and bramblebrush that were fast becoming a monochrome labyrinth, entangled brown highlighted here and there with red "No Trespassing" signs, markers that stood like huntsmen vigilant in the corners of the landscape. Overhead, I heard geese flying in formation, cackling with a sound like a rusty metal hinge opening and shutting. The sky showed in the water, brighter by far than the earth and illuminating the ice so that it glinted dully and, to the west where the sun had set, the heavens held a radiant archipelago of clouds, frothy pink like cotton candy at the county fair, bays and harbors cupping the cold blue of the sky. The clouds were pretty but the most beautiful colors in the west were those ceramic-smooth, cold sky-harbors, washed and tempered by the blue of the night, brushing up against islands made of pink cotton candy.
Suddenly, the crack of a hunter's rifle shot split the air, so close and resonant that I winced and felt my muscles urging me to fall forward, to take cover.
Time to hurry. Among the trees, a limb fell. "What is that?" I asked. My dog retreated behind my body, pulling my shoulder into an awkward position with her leash.
Where the trail climbed toward the woods edging the parking lot, a big black dog trotted onto the path. The dog turned for a moment and stared down the path toward us, nose lifted to the air, perhaps, scenting the death-stench from the slaughterhouse. The dog was black as night, a shadow athwart the path. I had the sense that there was no avoiding this dog, that the beast stood ahead of me, imminent and dense and menacing. No matter where I went or how swiftly I moved, the dog would be there, waiting, watching, lurking, a darkness in the darkness. Soundlessly, the dog coursed ahead of us, hurrying along the center of the trail. For an instant, in the light pooling under the lampposts at the fenced parking lot, I saw the dog's shadowy form take shape: shoulders, black breast like a anvil, head cocked against the chain-link fence, powerful crooked legs that padded along as the animal trotted down the trail.
We watched the dog for a few seconds. The leash in my hand trembled.
When a dog is young and powerful, the animal's gait leaves only two tracks, one spaced a little behind and adjacent to the other: a trotting dog, puts her right rear paw exactly where she has placed her right front paw and this pattern is the same for the dog's left legs and, therefore, a dog's trail in the snow or mud is marked by a hopping pattern, two marks instead of four since the paws follow one another perfectly. Each of the black dog's paws had melted a fan-shaped mark, serrated with claw-prints onto the trail.
4.
Since the sky is over all things, its divisions....
The last day of November was temperate and I walked my dog on the path that leads through the corporate woods. From a city park with playgrounds and befouled waste containers, the asphalt pathway leads along the edge of woods owned by the Hormel Company, passing the parking lot of an inscrutable factory satellite to the main slaughterhouse across the freeway, and, then, descends a slight hill to enter the forest. .
I brought the dog to the pathway late in the afternoon as deer fled before me. For a long time, I could see the deer's white-tail, a 40 watt light bulb, bouncing a little in the shadowy woods as the deer moved from place to place. T
At the far end of the trail, beyond the creeks and the immaculate brick blockhouse, I saw a half dozen deer, moving with great grace and dignity, across the clearing where the path eased over the railroad crossing. In single file, the deer walked to the north, toward the ramparts of the powerplant.
The clouds decorated the sky above the trees and bramblebrush that were fast becoming a monochrome labyrinth, entangled brown highlighted here and there with red "No Trespassing" signs, markers that stood like huntsmen vigilant in the corners of the landscape. Overhead, I heard geese flying in formation, cackling with a sound like a rusty metal hinge opening and shutting. The clouds were pretty but the most beautiful colors in the west were those ceramic-smooth, cold sky-harbors, washed and tempered by the blue of the night, brushing up against islands made of pink cotton candy.
Suddenly, the crack of a hunter's rifle shot split the air, so close and resonant that I winced and felt my muscles urging me to fall forward, to take cover.
Among the trees, a limb fell. "What is that?" I asked.
Where the trail climbed toward the woods edging the parking lot, a big black dog trotted onto the path. The dog turned for a moment and stared down the path toward us, nose lifted to the air, perhaps, scenting the death-stench from the slaughterhouse. The dog was black as night, a shadow athwart the path. I had the sense that there was no avoiding this dog, that the beast stood ahead of me, imminent and dense and menacing. No matter where I went or how swiftly I moved, the dog would be there, waiting, watching, lurking, a darkness in the darkness. Soundlessly, the dog coursed ahead of us, hurrying along the center of the trail. For an instant, in the light pooling under the lampposts at the fenced parking lot, I saw the dog's shadowy form take shape: shoulders, black breast like a anvil, head cocked against the chain-link fence, powerful crooked legs that padded along as the animal trotted down the trail.
We watched the dog for a few seconds. The leash in my hand trembled.
Each black paw had melted a fan-shaped mark, serrated with claw-prints onto the trail.
5.
Since the sky is over all things...
For a long time, I could see the deer's white-tail, a 40 watt light bulb, bouncing a little in the shadowy woods as the deer moved from place to place. T
At the far end of the trail, beyond the creeks and the immaculate brick blockhouse, In single file, other deer, five or six of them, walked to the north, toward the ramparts of the powerplant.
The clouds decorated the sky above the trees and bramblebrush that was fast becoming a monochrome labyrinth, entangled brown highlighted here and there with red "No Trespassing" signs, markers that stood like huntsmen vigilant in the corners of the landscape. The clouds were pretty but the most beautiful colors in the west were those ceramic-smooth, cold sky-harbors, washed and tempered by the blue of the night, brushing up against islands made of pink cotton candy.
Suddenly, the crack of a hunter's rifle shot split the air, so close and resonant that I winced and felt my muscles urging me to fall forward, to take cover.
"What is that?" I asked.
Where the trail climbed toward the woods edging the parking lot, a big black dog trotted onto the path. The dog turned for a moment and stared down the path toward us, nose lifted to the air, perhaps, scenting the death-stench from the slaughterhouse. The dog was black as night, a shadow athwart the path. I had the sense that there was no avoiding this dog, that the beast stood ahead of me, imminent and dense and menacing. No matter where I went or how swiftly I moved, the dog would be there, waiting, watching, lurking, a darkness in the darkness. Soundlessly, the dog coursed ahead of us, hurrying along the center of the trail. For an instant, in the light pooling under the lampposts at the fenced parking lot, I saw the dog's shadowy form take shape: shoulders, black breast like a anvil, head cocked against the chain-link fence, powerful crooked legs that padded along as the animal trotted down the trail.
We watched the dog for a few seconds. The leash in my hand trembled.
6.
Since the sky...
The last day of November was temperate. I walked my dog on the path that leads through the corporate woods.
"What is that?" I asked.
Where the trail climbed toward the woods edging the parking lot, a big black dog trotted onto the path. The dog turned for a moment and stared down the path toward us, nose lifted to the air, perhaps, scenting the death-stench from the slaughterhouse. The dog was black as night, a shadow athwart the path. I had the sense that there was no avoiding this dog, that the beast stood ahead of me, imminent and dense and menacing. No matter where I went or how swiftly I moved, the dog would be there, waiting, watching, lurking, a darkness in the darkness. Soundlessly, the dog coursed ahead of us, hurrying along the center of the trail. For an instant, in the light pooling under the lampposts at the fenced parking lot, I saw the dog's shadowy form take shape: shoulders, black breast like a anvil, head cocked against the chain-link fence, powerful crooked legs that padded along as the animal trotted down the trail.
We watched the dog for a few seconds. The leash in my hand trembled.
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