Because I am situated within a hole, the sun makes contact later than beyond where I am within its ridges, this land quiet, the temperature never stopping to stand still. Having situated myself here, I constantly add layers, crawling into them, tying my scarf around my neck, and changing my socks and shoes depending on what kind of ground I will soon step into. I notice because I've spent enough time waiting to get here, yet now that I am, I need to reach out in order to stay in. This morning, no crickets or insects vibrate our hole, and the owl from last-night made two different calls hopping from foot to foot, and now has wisely reflected my assumptions of its form by echoing them into it's dense forest, making me rethink and then feel like I must stop, that I can listen to the echoes of that hollow call for language and not have to hear even one full word to learn more. I remember asking Charlie, a man in his seventies who has been using my help managing his-surname-DeCreeft's property. I asked him when he felt he enjoyed learning most. He sat, whirling in an attempt to recalibrate his train of thought, the skin between his eyebrows wrinkled to a point, and recalled telling his father that he didn't want to wait for the oatmeal to cool. The father said son, eat around the edges. The bowl blue and yellow light peeks from behind. By the fireplace hinting at its heat from last night, I can be seen delving into the contents of this bowl-its blueness peeking from behind the mass which it contains. In it, I feel held and I think I am experiencing the feeling of wonder-for what exists in this bottom concentrate, where things settle. I think I am where the contents-if you leave them be, begin to change in the same light, winking at another nature-dry or viscous, and yet I have to manifest the steps for later cleaning the bowl because no one else will. I face the owls echo as the frost evaporates, the sunlight seeping the tree line across the grasses, will soon dissipate into the ambient light from those woods I have thought up, having thought them up from those woods I can see from the window of my bedroom, or the fireplace. I think of how I can make plans as each day shows me a possibility- when tomorrow is a memory of where I was today but in a different body; what those place-moments felt like, and how when they touch the temperature of today, my plan will become the air in the bowl, changing temperature. I realize that even though the owl, in its austere distance seems to say little, the echo of its sound which could be the attempt at a word, is not, but a simultaneous engagement of speaking, hearing, and doing so abstractly, like the twitch of a neck on a tortoise or the way you wash the dishes.