Ten a.m., three quarters through February, I’m driving along 7th Line to town, tall trees and deep snow on either side, a house or two glimpsed through branches: suddenly, ahead, as the road slopes up, from the trees on the right bounds a black animal, leaping across the road from one side of the woods to the other.
~~~
I’m allowing the idea to enter my head – and body – that a human doesn’t have to be any particular way. Continue reading
Twelve wild turkeys on their barnyard tour lumber from the woods
a haphazard file of sumptuous brown bodies pulled by naked heads and red chins
across the farmhouse lawn to the spot where chicken feed lies scattered every morning
they begin determined digging
Five black-and-white spotted cows and a brown sprawl on the thick hay pile that rises
from the snow and two more sleep standing with early spring sun heating their backs
one lying at the edge wakes and chews turning her large white-patched eye
to watch the foot traffic
Four horses stand under thick red blankets munching hay
heads bent to the ground and tails rarely twitching as it is still too cool
for bugs but even in the safety of the yard their lead mare lifts her brown head
and flares her nose watching long minutes for threats from across the field
Two black furry puppies with floppy ears and strong short legs
bark and run fast and free of any fear almost tripping
down the hill to waggle their muscular bodies in a yipping welcome
of a friend climbing the path
One cinnamon Labrador falls to the battered wooden floor of the old milk house
rhythmically thumping her tail on the boards and baring her belly for a long rub
she lifts her head for a close and steady gaze
licking the wrist of the hand that pats her
Two young huskies lie behind their fence breathing the cold air after their second
morning walk and five horses in the next field look up at the sound of footsteps on the road
at a passing shadow a chipmunk darts into the stone fence while the red squirrel
chats a warning from high in the bare maple
In the house a ladybug clinging at the water line sips from the cats’ bowl
bread cooling on the counter fills the air with its light baked yeasty smell
the eggs are washed and gleaming in their soft shades of brown and green
the world proceeds with its small rituals
~~~
Late-winter evening, a light snow,
6:30 on the first day
after the clocks spring ahead
standing on the road below my house
surrounded by fields, woods
and a profound quiet
my ears throb with stillness and a faint ring
from the city traffic I’ve left behind
for minutes no other sound comes by
I listen beneath soft flakes
in a luminous glow
of muted afternoon sun on snow
then solitary barking carries over far fields
brief squawking rises from the trees
down the long trail of the road
around the bends
an engine slowly draws near
and yet I hear
this
hush
~~~
Ice cracks across sloughs
on low-bottomed fields –
Sing, chickadees.
~~~
Horse wet from the rain
stands nostril to nostril in the barn with me
the dampness of her face
rising softly on the breath between us
~~~
