I came looking for greens today, too late for the light I found mainly greys. Lichens know their margins and, sensing one another, they know how to play out into form, growing purposefully towards their their own edges, forming respectful boundaries between one another, in this way making statements on the bark I feel I should be able to read. This subdued palette with meaningful undercurrents is speaking to me in Glen tongues.
Further in I see the water holds an almost-still smoke-like seepage, suspended white now in the calm pool of the lower pond, a sense of inertia floats in the body, a bouyed-up unrelease of particles with nowhere to go, I see the rivulets of Glen springs still crossing the path are running clear.
There were young people about in couples and small groups, the cool damp V of the Glen is a night release from the domestic squares we are all inside.
There is more laurel today in the pencil factory, I hesitate to imagine it may be from the green domed temples by the Fleischmann place.
