FAQ
“Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much?” -Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass
I have reckoned a thousand acres in my mind. The fields, the trees, the stones, the dirt. I have walked through and over and I’ve climbed the trees that are there. I’ve looked out from the treetops and looked far, across the whole span. I’ve seen the distant smoke of other people in their thousand acres. I’ve looked at the smallest inhabitants: the skinks and centipedes. I’ve considered the rhino that lives there in one corner. The bobcats and river otters and the badgers lying in the brush. I’ve walked my hound through the place as it sniffs out gerbils and water spots. The thousand acres is just a miniature of the earth as a whole, I say, and reckoning of one means reckoning of the whole place. So I’ve sat here and I’ve arrived at the earth entire without traveling. I’ve heard he poet speak of the paths up the mountains. I’ve read of the finches and ferns and the great networks of mushrooms reaching out to each other with love letters. I’ve looked up at Orion, one of billions who searches out for his belt at night. I’ve seen the invasive and the endangered and the plentiful. The ants, the sandhill cranes, the crocodile. I’ve seen corn high as your knee and as high as your ears. Smell of durian. Smell of soy. Wet soil. Lilac bushes. Hawthorns. Peaches. Freckles.