Scotts Run

Over the past few weeks, in spite of the rain, I keep coming back to this spot. It exists among the grand suburban mansions of Great Falls, and is devoid of people on a good day. On days like this one, I hide my backpack and sandals in the surrounding duff and wade into the freshwater. I flatten my feet in a way so that the river-rock feels softer on my soles, and I spend ample time observing the minnows and water bugs.

I look out for eels, as well. They slither and slip through algae-covered cracks in the rocks. Sometimes they lay under the rocks and just rest for a long time, and with good reason -- the Anguilla rostrata that lives in this creek began their journey thousands of miles away in the Sargasso Sea. They were born there, and will eventually swim back to reproduce and die there. But in the meantime, they lie slick and still in the creek, and wait for students and college professors to feed them bits of wonder bread and chicken.

☀

I came here when it was cold, once, when the fiery leaves in the forest were embering to a more tepid brown, and when the stink of the sewage drains at the trail-head didn't vex oxygen. I remember feeling lost and sitting just as still, on the shoreline of the water, as I listened to a mourning dove coo gently into the autumn sky. And I wondered if it knew, in that moment, that it was the most important creature in the forest -- emitting the sweetest sighs of grace, to me.


Back in civilization I begin the questioning, what to do with life? What kind of life? In wilderness this ceases; the questions aren’t answered, they dissolve.

- Randy Morgenson 

A look into my first deep-water culture hydroponic system.

A Whippoorwill in the Woods by Amy Clampitt

Night after night, it was very nearly enough,
they said, to drive you crazy: a whippoorwill
in the woods repeating itself like the stuck groove
of an LP with a defect, and no way possible
    of turning the thing off.

And night after night, they said, in the insomniac
small hours the whipsawing voice of obsession
would have come in closer, the way a sick
thing does when it's done for – or maybe the reason
    was nothing more melodramatic

than a night-flying congregation of moths, lured in
in their turn by house-glow, the strange heat
of it – imagine the nebular dangerousness, if one
were a moth, the dark pockmarked with beaks, the great
    dim shapes, the bright extinction –

if moths are indeed, after all, what a whippoorwill
favors. Who knows? Anyhow, from one point of view
insects are to be seen as an ailment, moths above all:
the filmed-over, innumerable nodes of spun-out tissue
    untidying the trees, the larval

spew of such hairy hordes, one wonders what use
they can be other than as a guarantee no bird
goes hungry. We're like that. The webbiness,
the gregariousness of the many are what we can't abide.
    We single out for notice

above all what's distinct, the way birds are,
with their unhooked-up cheekily anarchic
dartings and flashings, their uncalled-for color –
the indelible look of the rose-breasted grosbeak
    an aunt of mine, a noticer

of such things before the noticing had or needed
a name, drew my five-year-old attention up to, in
the green deeps of a maple. She never married,
believed her cat had learned to leave birds alone,
    and for years, node after node,

by lingering degrees she made way within for
what wasn't so much a thing as it was a system,
a webwork of error that throve until it killed her.
What is health? We must all die sometime.
    Whatever it is, out there

in the woods, that begins to seem like
a species of madness, we survive as we can:
the hooked-up, the humdrum, the brief, tragic
wonder of being at all. The whippoorwill out in
    the woods, for me, brought back

as by a relay, from a place at such a distance
no recollection now in place could reach so far,
the memory of a memory she told me of once:
of how her father, my grandfather, by whatever
    now unfathomable happenstance,

carried her (she might have been five) into the breathing night.
"Listen!" she said he'd said. "Did you hear it?
That was a whippoorwill." And she (and I) never forgot.


The very poem that inspired the title of this blog. Special thanks to Leo Chase for believing in my ability to create.