In a Fog

 "I like the muted sounds,the shroud of grey, and the silence that comes with fog..." -Om Malik

 My favourite fog poem of all.....Carl Sandburg's (1878-1967) little  poem "FOG", published in 1916....

 The fog comes

 on little

 cat feet

 It sits

 looking over  harbour

 and city

 on silent

 haunches

 and then moves on.....

 "Fog is my weakness, and every time there is low fog, I am out and about with my camera...." -Om Malik

PHOTOGRAPHS 2018

smokey

THESE FALL DAYS.....

                                     Where have all the flowers gone? Just Spencer hiding from the birds.
                              Stuffed himself between the pots. I could hear his purrs from inside the house.

                                       Forest from the top of the house. Bright this year.
                   It has never looked so colourful. Almost as if we lived in the Maritimes.

                        Smokey, Spencer's brother, from the hill, come to visit.
                                           Enjoys hanging around these fall days.

                                    Sunrise in the mist and rain. Also sunset. In the rain  and mist.

                                            Tail of a Steller Jay scooping in the seed pan.

                                                      Fog over a cold, blue Pier.

                                                  Sun at last. Smokey waiting sleepily on the steps.

                                                         Forest smothered in mist and cloud.

                                                     Marina entrance. Fog  barricaded.

                                                   And   Spencer. Me-0wling at the porch door.
                                                          Not to come in. They never come in.
                                     They HAVE homes.  Just announcing that they're around.

                                     Steller Jay Patriarch. Owning the birdbath and the seedpan.
                                    He tries to stuff as many peanuts into his beak as possible.
                                     He squabbles with the rest of his family . Seems to enjoy it.

                             Changing. Smoke Bush is bright this year as well.

                                    And  Cordelia surveys from the fence. She is as beautiful as ever.

                                        Gold Cat comes down from the hill. To watch all the birds.

                                    Vines yellowing. Dying. No grapes this year. Next year.

                                                  Gold cat is so  oblivious. One thing on her brain. Birds. Birds.

                                   Katura leaves. Starting to die off. Hanging on for dear life.

                                                Cats playing. In the leaves.
                                        Like little kids. 1,2,3,4, tag, you're it........

Faith and Irene: Spirits of Kindred

                               Kindred spirits came to Campbell River. Draped in new shawls.
                      "Every one of us is precious in the cosmic perspective...." (Carl Sagan)

                               And what to do with spirits of kindred likeness.
                           You whirl about  to ocean places of Tyee Spit,  where the grass is dry.
                                     Wildflowers bloom and large trees droop in the heat.

                                    You take selfies often. Especially if  wind whooshes overhead.

                              Read signposts in the heat. Hear the crickets. Hear the dry stalks rustle.

                                And dry grass crackle and pop under shoes, scuffing the toes ,                                                                                            marvelling at blue ocean.

                              Watch a small dog run with abandon to one of his favourite people

                                            Listen to the honk of  geese at the estuary.

                              And root on a golden retreiver . Who returns with his ball. Triumphant.

                          The kindred spirits beam. "In a hundred billion galaxies, you will not find another."
                                                              ( Carl Sagan)

           You may try to row a boat backwards. Finding that it does not move.

                                          Hoping the float plane will miss you all together.

                                     Listening to the tug chug of a tug going through the passage.

                                         Then you reach the Pier just before.  Before the end of day.

                                               The sun. Goes down.

                                           Walk long. Along the boards.Smell of the sea.

                                            Hear the clunk of fishing lures. Falling into water.

            In time for a few more selfies.                                       And shadows.

                                "Ah how good it feels! The hand of an old friend." ( Longfellow)

                                             Time to whirl away to another  place.

                             At Willowpoint, where the ocean is bluer and coast mountains bluer than blue.

                                Time to walk in the sun. Faith and Irene. Feel the heat under your soles.
                                               Hoping shoes will not melt . Time to talk and be.

                             Wondering what it would be like to say THIS was your summer home.
                                  Watching cleaners wash the windows. Eagerly wanting to peer inside.

                                   "The world is so wide, and each of us so small,
                                         and bound by friendship we are Giants!" (Pam Brown)

                                   Well, wrapped in yarn we can pretend. We are Yarn Giants.
                                                            We are spirits of kindred.

             Time for one last selfie. Oh , hurray for these selfie sticks. Morgan and Dale hold still.
                                               Everyone say "cheese".....
                                             

              

                                            "Joy is not in things: it is in us." (Richard Wagner)
                                          Well, it's definitely in us. And great JOY they bring.