.

he was the quinessential man.
tall and dark with unreachable eyes.
perhaps he had seen too much and so,
penetrated everything with an intense
scrutiny that quickly dissolved in
disinterest. unimpressed by anything
less than extraordinary, he carried
himself with a certain detachment,
as if nothing lived up to his
expectations and as if his insights
bore a weight he was bound to protect.

that particular morning, he wore
a thick wool sweater (cable-knit
vintage-ivory, or was it cracked
eggshell? if I had used any one of
those terms, he would have shrugged,
"whatever"). so I scanned it for
some small tear or broken thread
that would suit his character and
define it further. instead, I noted
how low it hung on the back of his
neck, how it framed his short hair
and exposed olive skin. but more,
how it dragged my eyes down the line
of his broad-shouldered back.


our walk across the dyke through fog
was surreal. the ground, wet and
silent, sunk and rose with every step.
colours vanished in air that hung thick
and heavy on his words ... archeologist,
biologist, conservationist. academically
accomplished, well-spoken, but best of
all, at home wherever. with both hands
shoved deep into pockets and shoulders
compressed, he pointed to the water by
tapping his forehead against the damp
day; a pair of geese warming an early
nest, two mute swans protecting their
space, a few ducks. he concluded,
"not much actvity today".

he spoke about the archeologocial value
of marshes and shared a trade secret
(to find an artifact, "go to a marsh!").
as we moved deeper into the fog, he
identified various grasses, promised
their importance to wetland ecosystems,
and then, in mid-sentence, tilted his
head upwards with eyes fixed on a
barely-discernible horizon, listened
to the sky and whispered,

"did you hear that? two sandhill cranes?"

in that moment, I realized something,
that it wasn't his academic expertise
nor the way he looked, but moreso, how
he applied what he knew so effortlessly
to anything around him. that. and in
spite of a thick cloak of indifference,
how acute his observations were, as if he
knew what he knew because of a
particular urgency deeply rooted in the
notion that everything (including himself)
was irretrievably interconnected.

was. and is.

for valuing what others might have
so easily (dis)missed, I admired him.


so ...


in the whir of words, their undertow,
and if everything is text, how like a
hungry animal they pace around my life,
all mouth and tongue, letters tracking
borders, alternating in and out of
leafy shadows and light as if to map
my outer limits, allthewhile remembering
that limits are the lines that any one
of us perpetually resides inside of.