“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

2.08.2015

the way the week moved



fog: thursday.

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last sunday.  the beginning of february.  the warm weather woke me at 5.  warmhumidwarm.  enough to make me suppose the heater had overheated, but a window opened to let in cool air showed me the truth - i was surrounded. the morning was in the 60s early, though with promises to grow cooler.  it rained - gray sky gray - and felt like tornado weather.  not a nearby breeze anywhere.

until i stepped all the way outside.

and then the air began to move.  the cat followed me from our yard to the neighbor's and around the corner.  there were crows in the magnolia tree, loud, and camellias bloomed and blooming and already dropping, red circles against the dreary morning.  by ten, sunlight shuffled in, not much, but suddenly there were shadows next to the trees, pale, then less so, then pale again, then gone.

movement.  this year's word.  i have the blisters to prove it.

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monday night.  february continued:  2 miles under the full moon, a stroll through the neighborhood, an easy talk and walk with a friend.  accompanied by dog.  tuesday night: the comet lovejoy visible through the thinnest of clouds. patience required.  i'd walked earlier, watching shadows on the ground, treading carefully around and over sidewalks pushed helterskelter by tree roots who refuse to be stopped.  wednesday: a morning walk to wake me.  it was a day full of tired and sweat.  a bit-more-than-a-drizzle of rain in the evening, hauling groceries into the house, tracking mud and leaves behind me.  katie met me downstairs and waited with me until i caught my breath, talked me into calmness when the computer misbehaved, and then we walked.  in the slight rain, in a different direction, headed north under the streetlights.  we decided that anyone who leaves their christmas lights up should have the courtesy to turn them on. the stairs at our house are lit with red, winding to the third floor. when i turn the corner to home, i always smile.  thursday night.  february fog:  i sat still, with a book and leftover mexican food.   friday. new fairy lights at work, using my thumbs as hammers.  another exhausting day, my brother to the hospital, my arms aching.  i was grateful for the night, the clear sky.  michael was out of town, away from civilization, and messaged me for comet information, where to look, and when, and all my words were useless.  you need a star map, i messaged back, and then stepped outside to walk under the sky.

today.  sunday again:   skye cat is killing lizards and offering them as gifts.  there are buds on the tulip trees.  i walked a morning walk to work to feed lily cat, my mind empty on the way, full of thoughts on the way back.  i passed a man singing aloud, whirling to his music, and truther bumper stickers plastered to utility poles.  i questioned the color of houses, stepped over hearts and true love drawn in the sidewalk, exhaled with each breath words i could be writing. lately the feel of a camera around my neck, all the time, just in case, feels like a burden. it will pass.

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4 comments:

  1. Is there anything quite as mysterious and humbling as white days? I love your description of the morning fog.

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  2. i love going to walk with you, sugar . . .

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  3. our worlds ARE so opposite weather-wise... but so much the same in many other ways. here, i walk through rooms, trapped indoors, restless, hungry for warmth and color and sunshine. reading this was a gift of all those things. xoxo

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