Springtime in Dagestan

The fluky string band in Sóller hacked out a Xenakis quartet last night with appropriate proportions of gravity, levity, gravidity, and levantinity in spite of all their technical failings. I walked home happy. I love this time when the snowbanks sink. The land swallows them like an ocean & becomes itself a matter for swimming through. Sap-fires steep muddly clothes in hackmatack smoke & Molly MacDougall muddles mint in perennial rum-warmth of the heart. I exchange the Black Sea for the Caspian; I am a trader; flux stagnates, a challenge to diction; on the western shores of this sea I pine for the western shores of that sea, meanwhile gathering resins and chewing them, spitting gladly, conditioning horsehair for saw-song. See-sawing thus, I make a habitation of Spring.