portent or delight?

It's happening fast. And earlier? Summer is morphing into autumn. The light is different and in recent days bird noises are prevalent. Ravens and magpies are cawing nonstop and flocking together. Why, I don't know. They don't leave for the south. Like us, they seem to be stuck here for the winter. Other birds are landing on the deck in groups, chirping choruses all morning, on the lookout for seeds that are no longer there.  We stopped putting out seeds because although the birds loved it and we had a great view of the many varieties, mice also like bird seeds a lot and since the deck is off the kitchen...well, you know the rest. I hate rodents in my house! (and car, but that's another story).

With all the avian activity I invariably think of the chapter in The Wind in the Willows when the birds are gathering on wires and in trees to discuss travel plans and how some of the animals (Ratty? Moley?) are wistfully longing to go along but know they won't or can't. It's really hard to leave home. But what would it be like to throw a few things into a pack and just go? Like the ancient Chinese and Japanese poets who put on a good pair of straw sandals, packed a rucksack with a cotton kimono of white paper treated with persimmon juice crumpled soft, a waterproof, hat, ink stone, paper, and set off - on foot - on journeys that lasted a year more or less. I love to ponder this type of journey and my own mythical rucksack. Basho said: I've always been drawn by windblown clouds into dreams of a lifetime of wandering. Me too. I'd need a second pair of shoes of course, a warm sweater, camera(s), a small knitting project with pack of interchangeable needles ( just in case I ran into some yarn along the way), pens, notebook, lipstick, good moisture lotion, wool socks, flannel PJs crumpled soft, Kindle, cell phone...guess I'm destined to stay home with Ratty.

All day, column after column
a squadron of feathers,
a fluttering airborne
ship
crossed
the tiny infinity
of the window where I search,
question, work observe, wait.
                               Pablo Neruda