I took a walk tonight at the invisible airplane. I got there later than I intended. I haven't adjusted to the time change. The sun had already set and it was getting dark. I almost didn't walk, because the park closes at dark, but there were a lot of other people there. I guess I'm not the only one not adjusted yet.
I walked past the good-dog park--looks like they've built more (hard to tell in the dark)--out to the end of the trail and beyond, out over the creek--crossing the wet, slimy wobbling boards in the disappearing light, down into the even darker swamp woods and our the long narrow peninsula the divides the bay from the river. In the dark, the invisible branches whipped my face and the narrow trail so close to the drop into the dark water was slippery with rain and sloping into the river. At one point, I hesitated over something looking like swollen body parts. I poked at them with my toe and heard a gentle rending sound and felt a squishy mass like rotted flesh--puffballs! Gone by. Huge ones. I walked over the beaver lodges and got that poetic feeling. I wanted to write a poem about it. I had my headlamp--but no Psion. Images and ideas were flooding me. Oh, I desperately wanted to write, all the way back to the car. But when I got there, I had to go, and there was the drive and signing in at Loretto and the elevator ride and my mother and waiting for Sara and talking and reading mail and looking for ice cream and going out to eat and then the drive home, story time and the poetic feeling was gone.
I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats