The keeper asked to share this lovely portion of a longer piece by Mark Slouka in this month'sHarpers:
" . . . we have not yet found the language with which to front the word we inhabit. . . We have not even begun to learn this language, its alphabet is a mystery, its declensions unknown.
"There are times, sitting up to my chin in a warm pond watching a damsel fly the precise iridescent green of cheap tinsel perch on a spear of weed protruding above the water . . . when I can almost feel it . . . A music just beyound my range of hearing. . . And I think to myself: This is beyond us. Only reverence is appropriate here."
She tells us that this is the sense she gets in the garden.
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