The birdbaths have thawed, and are reflecting the surrounding trees and blue sky overhead. From time to time, visitors arrive to dance on their rims and partake of their rippling waters. In between, they chase each other through the brambles and still-to-be-recycled piles of storm debris, which no doubt isn’t debris to them, but just one more temporary, inevitable consequence of being awake and alive. Without the piles, they carry […]
We broke the ice in the birdbaths and filled them with fresh water. The first drink was taken by a squirrel. Then a pair of juncos descended from the bare birches. They hopped around the rim, stopping for very quick small sips — stopping without stopping, you might say. More sun, more cold, not a drop of rain. The dry air inside makes the sinuses ache. My blood pressure was […]
Picking up a few wind-downed birch and fir branches, I found out just how soggy the backyard is. Each step was accompanied by a luscious squish — two words you don’t see together very often — the result of the frequent rains we’ve been having. This didn’t stop me, though, from making a fair beginning of the annual pruning of our fig tree, which is a fair-sized job requiring the […]
This thoughtful little canvas hangs on the wall near our old oak dining table. It’s been there for years, and I still study it often, half-expecting a change in expression. Someday, if it isn’t discarded, or ruined by water or fire, it will belong to someone — valued, perhaps, or politely kept in a drawer. In that way, its story might be seen as similar to our own. And so […]
Upon returning to the short piece Dream Baby, I am pleased to see how recounting a simple dream, which was pleasant enough itself, leads to a passage of memory, which then transforms itself into a kind of poetic, universal love story. While I am the hairy old uncle and grandfather, I also embody the uncles and grandfather of my childhood, their whiskery familiarity and smell. In a sense, the dream […]
Upon returning from her early-morning walk, she said, “A raccoon, as big as a small bear.” . Rushing water, fluid sand, where the stream meets the sea. For an instant, there are two of me. But to keep my balance as I cross, I must mind my feet. . Potted the coleus cuttings. . Read chapters twenty-eight and twenty-nine of Middlemarch. . . . It is an uneasy lot at […]
Yesterday we saw a solitary hiker with thin, long, gray hair, leaning with his right palm against the trunk of a mossy old maple, and the maple pushing back, ever so gently, to the quiet music of the stream below. Now, you and I both know, how he was and wasn’t there, and how he is and always will be; that if by gracious chance we pass that way again, […]
heavy dew . . . bare feet / sunrise / hummingbird / watering can . . . . [ 1825 ]
Washing my feet in the stream after a long, dusty hike — there goes a little more of me. . [ 1817 ]
William Michaelian 