For the Love of Dirt

Friday, January 9, 2015

In the Fog

In the fog. Today. An eagle. Looking doefully down onto a flock of starlings.

They were tormenting him with their gossipy squawking.

In the fog. Quadra Island. Lighthouse obscured.

"The hours when the mind is absorbed by beauty are the only hours we live. "

(Richard Jeffferies. 1848-1887)

In the fog.Today. No one at the Pier. No one fishing. No one walking.

In the fog. Sun slipping down. Water slapping against the side of the Pier.

Not quite in the fog. The marina. Boats all tucked away. Waiting for spring.

Waiting for that moment to slip away into the passage.

And the rocky shore quiet. No tourists. No dog walkers. No one.

Just fog. And the foghorn.

The boards of the Pier soggy and boggy from continual damp.

In the fog. The end of the Pier deserted.

Except for the lone eagle. Trying to ignore those noisy starlings.

Trying to be still. "To a mind that is still the whole universe surrenders." (Chuang Tzu)

To fish. To hunt. In the fog.

At the farthest end of the Pier. In the fog, a heron took flight.

Giving the eagle the idea that it was time to high tail it to quieter places.

Let the starlings screech and squawk till they could squawk no more.

He was silent as he drifted away.

In the fog. Into fast approaching night.

Saturday, January 3, 2015

First Saturday of the Year that is New. Candles in teacups blaze and writhe with fire.It's fold outside and Smokey waits at the door. Spencer flicks his paws against the constant sog. I'm afraid I always seem to be posting pics of cats. Well, they seem to be the most visible. Especially in winter. Always staring in the door. Watching the elves make a break for it. Again. They were bored I guess. Decided to go sledding. Just too excited to try something new in the new year.

And the cats watched.

"I'm here". Well, Smokey seems to always be here. He DOES go home.Really he does. As does Spencer. But they show up every morning. Every noon. Every afternoon or early evening. Very reliable. We seem to communicate.Flick Flick. Goes Spencer with the wet paws.

Spencer sits and listens. Watches. It's drier on the porch.

Smokey is the brave one. He ventures out in the skiff of snow. Spencer does not like his paws wet. He sits in his pot. HIS moss basket. Flick Flick. He watches me sweep snow from the porch.

The Year of New is quiet. The drifting snow, that will not last. And Cordelia. Perched like an angel on the Moai. Just like last year. Flick Flick , goes Spencer. Settling on his pot of moss.

Year of New has new things. Projects to do. Fabric to cut. Yarn to twist into a dozen things.

The elves have come in from their day of sledding. Tuckered out.

They like to lie by the fire and chill. Like cats.

And some , in grey fur, dance and leap for joy in snow that will melt. Just because. Just because it is good to be happy. Wet paws and all. FLick Flick.

"With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?" (Oscar Wilde)