At the Bend in the Creek

We have rung every possible seasonal weather change in recent days, the pendulum oscillating from snow and bitter cold to rain and above zero temperatures. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth we go. 

What to do? A walk on an overcast day is the ticket, dressing warmly and keeping to the area around the creek sheltered by tall old trees. The temperature hovers around zero, but there is a bitter north wind, and our fingers and toes tingle as we (Beau and I) potter along. There are footprints in the snow along the creek's verges, the tracks of birds and field mice, cottontail rabbits, now and then a raccoon. This morning, there are also the prints of a weasel (or ermine as it is known in winter when its fur turns white). Not surprising as the little creature is a fierce and very proficient mouser.

A few days ago, the little waterway was starting to open again, but it was cold overnight, and the channel has iced up again except for an opening where the water flows a little faster. In that small and hopeful aperture, the icy water sparkles, holding clouds and light and whiskery branches. It sings blithely of light returning, and it counsels patience. It reminds me that we are flowing too, even when we seem to be standing still or frozen in place. Under my parka, boots and woolly hat, there beats an ebullient heart. Little rivers run through me, singing as they go.

October Song

Wordless Wednesday - Singing Their Way Home

Happy October!

Sequestered, Week 257 (CCLVII)

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Small Openings

We have rung every possible seasonal weather change in recent days, the pendulum oscillating from snow and bitter cold to a rain and temperatures above zero. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth we go.

What to do? A walk on an overcast day is the ticket, dressing warmly and keeping to the area around the creek sheltered by tall old trees. The temperature hovers around zero, but there is a bitter north wind, and our fingers and toes tingle as we (Beau and I) potter along. There are footprints in the snow along the creek's verges, the tracks of birds and field mice, cottontail rabbits, now and then a raccoon. This morning, there are also the prints of a weasel (or ermine as it is known in winter when its fur turns white). Not surprising as the little creature is a fierce and very proficient mouser.

A few days ago, the little waterway was starting to open, but it was cold overnight, and the channel has iced up again except for an opening near the bend where the water flows a little faster. In that small and hopeful aperture, the icy water sparkles, holding clouds and light and whiskery branches. It sings blithely of springtime and green things emerging from the earth, of wildflowers blooming and geese coming home. It counsels patience. Soon, it says, very, very soon. Please, Mama, let it be so.

Sequestered, week 201 (CCI)

Wordless Wednesday - Treasure Within

Free At Last

Small Openings

We have rung every possible seasonal weather change of late, the pendulum oscillating from snow and deep icy cold to rain and temperatures above zero, then back to subzero temperatures, snow and bitter winds. Yesterday there was a little sunlight, and it made my creaking bones and weary heart glad. This morning, it is snowing, and it will snow all day, lucky us. There are several centimetres of white stuff in the offing.

My neighbours have begun to inquire if my canine companion still lives here. Snow in the garden behind the house is so deep that they can't see Beau running around the circular track I keep shoveled out for him there. The walls of his makeshift twitten are almost four feet high, and he disappears from view completely when he is standing in it or galloping round and round in circles. Enough already.

Areas around the creek are sheltered from the north wind and blowing snow by embankments on both sides, by tall old trees in whiskery winter splendor. There are footprints along the creek's verges, the meandering tracks of birds and field mice, cottontail rabbits, now and then a raccoon. On this day, there were also the prints of a weasel, or ermine as it is known in winter when its fur turns white. Not surprising as the little creature is a fierce and very proficient mouser.

The diminutive tributary is blanketed with snow except for an opening near the bend where the water flows a little faster. In that small and hopeful aperture, the icy water sparkles, holding clouds and light and whiskery branches. It sings blithely of springtime and green things emerging from the earth, of wildflowers blooming and geese coming home. It counsels patience. Soon, it says, very, very soon.

Wordless Wednesday - Flowing

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.

Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Over the Rocks and Down to the Pond

A Little Melting in the Sun

October River

Little River Flowing Home

Little River and Morning Light

A Little Melting in the Village

Ice and Morning Light

October Song