By Chila Woychik
I’ve been thinking about the long winters and air that leaves me gasping. I’ve been thinking about the forest, for the trees, for the birds, for the wander. I’ve been wondering about space and darkness, the sun, such stars. I’ve thought much about my forebears and the too much I’ll never know, the past, buried under a coverlet of Spring rains and Autumn’s leaves that scatter and settle. And one day I think I’ll think a little more about death’s slow creeping and a hope I hope for (some call it “heaven”). But until then … there are these people and those plans and right and wrong, trips and triggers and trauma and triumph. There are the blunted days and the blowsy nights, a wind and hush and bleeding, culling. The soft yeses, the winning noes. But the flowers, the flowers. And that bluebird that just won’t quit. Oh God.
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Chila Woychik is originally from the beautiful land of Bavaria but has lived in the American Midwest most of her life. She is widely published and has an essay collection, Singing the Land: A Rural Chronology (Shanti Arts, 2020). Her impressive barn is currently home to an old cat named Sweet Pea and four young strays, Shadow, Skitter, Suzy, and Scamp. www.chilawoychik.com