William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


After visiting the massive black walnut tree in the park by the river, we continued half a mile along the trail to murky and muddy Goose Lake, which is swollen now, to the point that we didn’t need to go see it, it came to see us. Despite its name, we have yet to see a goose there. But there were a great many ducks, gliding across the surface and quacking away in some sort of comical competition. Then we followed the trail another mile or so, until we reached the old black cottonwood — its age around 215 years, a little sign says. The tree is on high ground beside another lake, but until a great flood in 1861, it was by the river. But the flood was such that the river changed its course. The tree, though, is tall enough to see the river from where it stands, or so I like to imagine. And if the tree can see the river, the river can see the tree. And speaking of seeing, we saw two hawks. And we saw them seeing us. We heard a wild gathering of geese in a distant hops field, where they’d gone to feed on the grass. It was foggy the whole time we were out — not a dense, ground-hugging fog, but everywhere we turned there was a misty veil upon things. Distance walked: two and a half miles. Time out: about fifty minutes. Impression: timelessness. The latter continued when we stopped at a thrift store, where I found another book to bring home: Living Dramatists, published in 1905 by Brentano’s in New York, in an edition limited to 200 copies. Price: $2.79. This is what it looks like sitting on top of my grandmother’s old White sewing machine:

Living Dramatists

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Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces

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