I am still grappling with Twitter. I get cute little messages to my in-box about how so and so wants to connect with you or whatever. I don't know how to respond. Follow. Following. Not following. Strangers out of the blue flood in, foodies, writers, mothers, nature lovers, enterprisers, suspense writers, writers on Manhattan, publishers, dog walkers, house cleaners, risotto makers, experts on stain removal, counsellers on how to tell your son in college that it is time to get a part time job, people who make random statements, wonderful twittering people trending, surfing, doing whatever the twitter world tells or frees you up to do.
I still don't understand it fully. I have thirty followers the last time I checked. Most have two thousand. How would one keep up with this chaotic communication? It's too fast for me. Too removed from where I am. I can't respond. I don't know how and besides the cows came back this evening. Back into the meadow, the milking fields, behind the house. Two big white cows and one baby one. I never noticed the transition until I saw the farmer pass by out on the road on his bicycle in his high-viz jacket like someone escaping a burglarly. I knew then to look and took to the back window to view the beasts settled in all their glory. I suppose I could have tweeted it - 'cows back in north meadow' but I was never good at limiting my word count. Never fitting what I saw into the category demanded of me. I think of Henry Moore. Silly me, I know. Out in the bogs to be thinking about art and form. But yes, I did. Think of lines and strength and beauty and effect and stunning, stand alone beauty. Organic living art at my back door. God, my son came home from school and he wasn't through the back door before he said, Mom, the cows are back. I wanted to embrace him then. To say, Jesus, I must have done a good job on you. You used your eyes. You opened yourself up to something beyond the instant. Instead I said, of course they're back. Sure isn't it the same every year. Isn't it how its always been and he looked at me with a wise old look that I had not seen before and walked away, holding onto everything and nothing. When I looked back out at the cows I could have sworn they were looking straight back at me, but it must have only been the light, the false rumination of time, the twittering of light that can deceive, the monstrous span of time, the penetration of truth.