More than thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird.

I walked for an hour and a half in the monsoon-like rain today, looking for a blip, my little Lumix in my pocket (I don't dare haul out the Nikon in pouring rain). My rain jacket actually soaked through to my skin, my rain-proof shoes were sodden, my fingers became so numb I couldn't feel the camera button, and I could barely see, but I loved the freshness of the air, the clean, wet feeling of being washed through. There was a huge pylon in the river, and on the pylon were about fifty cormorants facing into the rain. I shot them but they were too far away for the little point and shoot to do anything with. Finally it occurred to me to take off the glasses and shoot through them. I got something, although you'll have to trust me that the cormorants were out there.

I'm working on a poem requested by Earthdreamer, although I don't know if what I write can ever be called poetry. I am reminded of a conversation Paul Bowles had with Gertrude Stein, as reported by Bowles:

Stein: "Well, the only trouble with all this is that it isn't poetry."
Bowles: "What is it?"
Stein: "How should I know what it is? You wrote it. You tell me what it is. It's not poetry."

She might well say the same thing to me, if she saw this thing I'm working on. But I will carry on and see. And meanwhile, here is a brief blip from me, with the same thing seen many more than thirteen times at once.