Watermark

Snapshot 07 December 02005

The pond is frozen over, fountain bubbling beneath a crown of thick ice. A friend brings food and a red poinsettia. She tells me bluebirds have returned to the river. This garden is a dance of sparrows, chickadees, finches, juncos ~ and each day, a visit from the hawk.

I shop for long underwear and thick socks. The dogs shiver on their beds. This sky opens so wide, so blue at midday ~ but the days are narrowing down. Why now, in this quarter-moon, pre-solstice darkness, does my old body hum with forgotten desire?

a brush of cotton
my nipples
harden

Snapshot 22 September 02004

Everyone is settling in for winter.  Sparrows, chickadees and nuthatches fatten on autumn berries and my offerings.  A neighbor who is moving to the edge of town (up the Rattlesnake) bear country, brings me squirrel and bird seed she cannot put out at her new home. This week the roof went up on another neighbors' new house. 

The past few evenings, as the dogs and I walk along the dike above the river, we startle three beavers -- one!  two!  three! -- into the water.  Great splashes!   By now, I think they are not startled; they know who we are.  They know we are coming, and that we will pass without harm.

Still -- Splash!  Splash!  Splash!

           rainy nights
           cool mornings --
                summer's end