Wednesday, September 26, 2012

back of beyond

A night of intermittent rain. I awaken early, look out the window toward the west, see the ocean. Not really, of course, but so like it that it makes me shiver. I expect to see waves, rhythmic movement. But no, only low clouds, remainders of the wet night. Now I'm imprinted for the whole day. Can't get the ocean out of my mind. Feel restless. Bags packed. Want salty air, curly hair. Reality of dry high desert air, straight hair, wild yellow chamisa, purple asters. I can adapt, always have. Suppress the thing that overwhelmed the morning. Coffee. Yarn. Reality. I wear the Mexican jade necklace every day lately. Weight of amber grounds me, dusky old jade tickles imagination. He said it was centuries old.

and then she said...
I can show, now, what I've been working on. Handwarmers. What I call Knitz Mittz. Beginning to feel sense of accomplishment. Getting ready for big 3-day craft show at November's end. They love fingerless mitts -- and no one makes them quite the way I do. Sell out every time.
September's end so close. Where did it go? Autumn.  I missed the equinox. Realized it after. Remembered that for decades, in other places, I wasn't even aware of the dates of seasonal change. So different here. Sunset, sunrise. Seasons changing dramatically. Obviously. How can one not be aware? Nature reigns in spite of humankind. Herds of cattle in fields. So many babies. Usually see them in spring. Maybe the Indians know that the winter will be mild. But how do they know? They know things we don't -- in spite of Walmart and Jack Daniels. Wish  grandbaby Dante was here. I understand that he's in love with cows! He would have been delighted today. The green field dotted with brown and black, yellow aspen backdrop.

I observe ravens bathing at the top of the monolithic fountains in the center of the new roundabout as I drive by. Can't stop to take picture. Old Pueblo Indian man once said to me, "you write, you don't need a camera". But how can I show you? Wings flapping. Wet shining black feathers. The frenzy of pure avian ecstasy.  It seemed so. And, here, they gather on latilla fences as if to leave -- but stay.

the twilit trees are full of crows
                    Tu Fu

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