How do I feel like myself?
It seems to require isolation.
This morning I cycle through the woods,
things I see:
fuzzy cows with long horns on each side
moving—in my eyes they look like machines, robot creatures
almost, and it takes me telling myself again to remember
they, too, are alive (what does this say except perhaps
I have been spending too much time in the city);
also a pheasant crossing the path, then fluttering away,
I apologize for the disturbance, a "beautiful" loosing my lips
at its colored feathers, maroon, brown, green, ruffled, unruffling;
also soft hairy spheres—witch hazel? my mind offers up, I am not sure
softness along the brown branches on the path;
and things I hear: is it the wind or is it the snowflakes
falling lightly, constant,
all around me.
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