A change in the weather, a wetlands, birds and beasts and walking on clouds, as well as writing and writers, songwriting, and death. I think I covered it all...
Living in a Poem
Our hazy 80 degree Augtober days are coming to an end. The rains march inexorably closer, and will put out fires, clear the air, and bring… what, I don't know. Naomi Shihab Nye says, “You are living in a poem.”
A Bird in the Hand
I walk outside to the garden early most mornings, and with a loud squawk our resident scrub jays fly in. They perch on a trellis or tree branch across the yard but in plain sight, and cock their heads at me. I sigh, go back in to grab the peanuts I'd forgotten, and scatter a few on the patio.
It's an in-between time around here. Red, yellow, and orange leaves cover the ground and linger in the tree branches, hanging on til the next big winds. Rain alternates between torrents and sprinkles. I've just been in a "should I stay or should I go" sort of mood.
Some birthdays are passed in celebration, some with dread, and some like this last one, with just a nod and a shrug, acknowledging the passage of time. And another hike around Ridgefield Nature Preserve.