The clouds are churning all day in a milky sky; I close my eyes and am wholly at home,
but to please my child, I drive out by the sea.
The tide is out, and is rushing sidelong over toward the mouths of two great rivers.
We hear the glad chatter of a flock of wild ducks returning to their Northern nesting-grounds.
A haze hovers over the trees, which are ready to burst into gold-green flames.
On the way home, a foreboding seizes my innermost viscera. It has to do with my youngest; my fierce young phoenix has been having a day.
In the evening, while speaking to a friend, I glance out the window to the West in the direction of the departing sun --
there, between two trees, the inexplicable is occurring: the waving branch of one spruce to the left is describing a sloe-dark eye, while a parallel branch to its right depicts the other half of a pair of eyes, staring directly at me. A curling branch curves downward like the curve of a shawl, completing charcoal sketch of a most obscure, dignified, and nebulous beauty.
Not wanting to lose the enchantment of this moment, I hurry to tell the tale to my friend, who pronounces solemnly, "Do you not see that this is you, you are the dark mother. It is you."
I do not have the proper words to reply. All that I am -- I offer to this world, to this beauty, to this becoming.