Driving home at dusk on a winding road. I can feel deer. A couple minutes later
I come up behind two cars, the first with its blinker lights on, a young buck sauntering across the road.
The car in front of me continues as the first one switches its blinkers off and pulls ahead
so I push hard with my energy on the second: this one darts swiftly out of the bushes
and barely makes it.
"Atta boy!" I say jubiantly, out loud to no one.
One more still there, I can see him in camera two. My turn to put the flashers on
and wait. He too scampers out.
Hmm, I don't see anymore. I resume driving and approach the opening where the deer came out of, my eyes taking in
a big empty field and a few tall bushes. Always nice to have verification, though I didn't really need it. Not anymore, anyway.
Don't you see?
That quiet voice saying, you should call your mother now and you call, only to find out she has a something burning in the oven that the ringing phone alerted her to, or worse. Or,
that quiet voice again, with its emotionless suggestion, buy a lotto ticket and play your numbers tonight, only you don't. The voice goes silent. Later, you find out your numbers took the win.
You talking to you.
No big deal to remember how to listen.
Some call this intuition, we call it seeing, the way we were born already knowing how.
How can I put this into words that often fail me?
"Oh language, virtue
of Man, touchstone
worn down by what gross fiction" …
…Now, who said that?? Oh yes, Denise Levertov, in her poem "An Interim":
This, I remember.
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