On a walk through the cemetery on a Tuesday afternoon in late October, to listen to the new Adrianne Lenker album all the way through for the first time.
That it feels like the perfectly right thing to do. One perfectly right thing.
The way she’s recorded the acoustic guitar so that you can hear the strings vibrate.
That I could still learn to play guitar. That as long as I don’t try I can imagine getting good.
Getting good at something. Good as a direction I want to go in.
The fact that it’s finally fucking sunny again, and not hot.
The yellow trees, the yellow feeling that follows.
Where the grass, still mostly green, has gone unmowed a while and is so teeming with tiny birds (finches?) that it seems alive, and powerful, as though the ground is reanimating the fallen leaves, transfiguring them and sending them back into the air as birds.
That when I get home I can find out whether they are finches. That I could now but can wait, that I’d rather look at them than look them up.
That my love for the birds—for their particular tinyness—asks nothing of them, and is therefore simple.