Watch

1. Watching it closely, respecting its mystery, is the note you've pinned above this heavy Dutch table that takes the light weight of what you work at, coaxing the seen and any mystery it might secrete into words that mightn't fall too far short, might let you hear how the hum of bees in the pink fuchsia and among the buttercups and fat blackberries is echoed by that deep swissshhh sound that is your own blood coursing its steady laps and speaking in beats to the drum of your left ear. 2. When you watch the way the sycamore leaf curls, browns, dries, and drops from the branch it's lived on since spring, to be blown by a soundless breeze along the seed heads of the uncut grass, then the mystery that is its movement—the movement, that is, from seed to leaf-shard and so on to fructive dust—holds still an instant, gives a glimpse of something that quickens away from language into the riddling bustle of just the actual as you grab at it and it disappears again, again unsaid.