Where do I start? Something from a photo – from life – from imagination.
Trees out windows. Houses in the trees. The darkness under the hill. The light through the darker trees which shows us something. There is surprise, fear, delight in catching something unawares. Something moving in the light, by the edge of the water, under a rock. (The crayfish dances silently with a frog struggling in it its claws).
I know it must be here. In the fold, the darkening valley. I need to squint to find it in my peripheral vision.
Driving in the car, imaginings un-spool like thread. The delight in the journey, holding back while moving forward, not wanting to arrive. Suspended.
The house with the stone lions, the cup of stars.* The punishment that awaits the run for freedom.
(Pink squares of light through the trees. uncanny dappled light. Pink house through the trees. Dried heads stuck on the outside.)
Something must be set in motion. Something to follow.
*See The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson