Lemurs and Lions' Manes

Our hands imbibe like roots, so I place them on what is beautiful in this world.

I am, somehow, less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein's brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops.

Thou calledst me dog before thou hadst a cause. But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

" Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating that something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share. "

"The houses are all gone under the sea. The dancers are all gone under the hill."

Again, as a boy, his chapel is the wild places, his saints are scattered in the dark grass. The scent of fox, his swinging incense, an ivy tangle his high arch. Nettles bed his raw knees, peat has smoked his cloak. Alive, alive in the greenness of things.