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Spizella was founded on the understanding that we all have unique methods of connecting ourselves to Nature, and these ways of knowing are creative and illuminating and inspiring and vital to protect. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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It was a risk of creation for creation’s sake, for the delight of things untethered from that narrow idea of progress. We find ourselves in joyous search of the corners of life in step with Nature. Without art, our relationship to the land would be either arid and simple, or overwhelmingly unknowable.

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by R.J.

How do we create a sense of place, a sense of homeland? What are patterns and rhythms only we can explain, colors that bleed and blend when we recall a footprint or the curve of a shell, but words of a hidden language that reminds us our place nestled in the arms of Earth? Spizella is an effort to inspire expression of those languages of thought and color and sound.

by Northern

by Mondielle

by On The Loose

by Zostera

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by R.D.T

This does not mean blind appraisal, or love without balance. We are interested in every connection point to Nature, every complexity and abstraction and absurdity. This is a space for risk-taking and exploration above all else, a space where honesty is the highest intention.

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by Sewer.co

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by hoot

We hope those who collaborate with us feel mutual respect and inspiration. If that is achieved, Spizella will bloom from the minds of all of you.

Powell 

D. A. стигматы

Powell to Clark—
My God, more treacherous than I
Rightfully anticipated, nevertheless we
Move forward, Smith recovering and 
Jones the opposite, the water
Described as cruel—
And yet
Scorpion snake indian man coyote 
In brief moratorium at the water
Indeed, the only relief the water
And appears our only path onward

Well
A river running north

I woke up, my throat was burning
Trails of virga fading against the gray 
Expectant dirt curling to sand  
Stood over Lucifer Falls 
Stretch necked herons and kingfishers 

Like a stove top, the scene
Flat stone falling and breaking
Against the horsewhip surface of the plunge

From this shallow basin, drinking
Scattering Gerridae by his step
Powell prayed for an end to his wilderness

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by worm

 

Honey, Blood, and Marmalade

Zostera

 

Autumnal breezes, winds of change

They coat familiar worlds with strange

The brightest greens, the skies of blue

Replaced with colors warm and new

 

The forest crown begins to glow

Through canopies the colors flow

Like honey, blood, and marmalade

The beauty of the world betrayed

 

They lay in piles on the ground

The vivid reds, the richest browns

A breath of air, a gust of wind

The empty boughs, the branches thinned 

 

The warm hues swirl around your feet 

A sadness full of memories sweet

The world of tones and tinges drains

Leaving cold and empty veins

Blush of Sea

Asio

 

Smell my father’s workbench on the sea, 

Or perhaps see the smell, oaken color,

As daybreak nausea pushes crimson light through my chest

And into absinthian September wind. 

 

My paws tremble. 

Fiberglass come to glass on the dash, glass to foam,

and foam to hook. 

These hooks I know. 

Monofilament clasps feather, deer. 

Old bodies left

in the old world, their sheddings further now

than breath dare reckon.

 

We move along water

a flaunt of fishes and men,

Eddying in ungainly unison

as a bus of schoolchildren along a pot-holed avenue.

But as the menu meagerly shouts the meal, 

Our imitations are not herring, nor shad.

Their indigo not so mercurial,

their backs arched without adornments.

 

Drift.

 

A bathymetric teacup is the place

To smell migration. 

And I will, when lattices

Of ancient direction and adolescent astonishment 

Hiss upon intersection.

 

My feet remain to the bow, my father the stern. 

Southern swells sing without dissonance

I arch, he subsides, twenty years of 

Murmuring beneath the transom, 

entrancing songs of megalithic daydreams in

lance-sharp water, or perhaps the ochre he once painted upon my vision,

brilliant and gracious and never to fade. 

 

A loon wails.

 

I have my mother’s eyes.

Green and hazel, a garden caterpillar,

The nape of a warbler

beneath an awning of Clethra. 

They are not my father’s. 

His blaze the sea light below, 

Crownstones of some Ancient of Eternal Azure,

The calm finds these eyes first. 

 

Night has arched away to the west, 

Rods of railway-tunnel gold splintering its matrix

as Boreas, the northerner, his task complete, 

Lays his head upon the far inlet.

The smells of Sweet Fern and Pitch Pine

fading in a confident light. 











My father stares east and my eyes follow, 

Sky, with Ocean’s love now steady and plumb, 

Unveils her form in the silence

Blushing blue and pale nimbus.
 

A loon paddles, limning the edge of sea and ether. 

 

I clasp cork. The fabric before us, once ironed

Now whispers heat and lavender and jolts me from half-dreams.

 

Laminar flow betrays her motion, saxatilis,

Yet her place before the bow I must gather 

Without sense,

rather by obligation

to the etchings of old routes, 

Roads cobbled by sea-liced scutes,

a Cretacean merchant of scale-strewn death, 

Sweetwater of southern marshes come to brush fate with

submerged and gloomy gneiss, as northern a sight

And the boy before her, extolling her dazzling light.