j—,

No worries! (that was my automatic google reply.  what world do we live in where my computer types my words, where my brain need not even expand a thought into its own words.  what does that do to my existence?  can i live more purely in the realm of ideas or does this auto-word-generator simply separate my very-human, tactile body, the existence that relies upon such tools as ploughs and nails and words and letters from the part of me that is retracting inextricably like an unused tendon into the recesses of my brain?)

the grass is waving outside my window.  a piece of cottonwood fluff is stuck in a spiderweb.  that fluff has held my attention now for ten minutes.  DNA material caught in the strands of white, deep in the tiny seed that holds the promise of a tree – a gnarled, giant of a tree – in its tiny mass held aloft by the strand of a spiderweb.  Still pure idea.  Or maybe an existence that is enough just as it is.  Minisculum, freight for the atmosphere, whisper of the veins of the earth roped up from the swampy woods.

from the collection of: d. heidel