This morning at the farms along the road

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


Rain planet


It came back to me today, as it has over the years: the story of the girl who did not see the sun.

For me, it’s been the opposite. All we’ve had for two months has been sun. No rain. Not one drop. We’re heading into drought conditions.

As the creeks dry up and the river runs low, as the grass dries and the ants invade the house looking for water, my heart shrivels a bit each day.

Until today. Today, we have rain, and I am out in it.

And I’m thinking of the girl.

I read the story in elementary school; I was maybe eight or nine, so around 1970. The girl lived on a planet where the sun came out once every generation (as I remember it) for two hours. The rest of the time, it rained, it rained hard, the light was grey, the people lived indoors. And they lived for the moment when the rains stopped, the light brightened, and they would all run outside and feel the heat on their skin and the indescribable caress of sun on their faces.

But when it came, the single day of the sun’s two hours, this girl’s classmates locked her in a closet. No one knew she was there but the children who had locked her away. And when they ran outside to play in the sun they forgot about her. No one let her out. She did not see the sun that day, and in my memory of the story, she would not see it in her lifetime.

This was a shocking, poignant, and enrapturing story of yearning, betrayal, remorse, and acceptance. As I remember it (though my memory turns out to be faulty), in her closet, this girl travelled through grief and fear to acceptance and humility, and ultimately embraced her identity as the only person on the planet who had not seen the sun that day.


Sitting on my porch this morning with the rain finally pouring down, the long, steady sound of heavy drops around me, the thick wetness of the air, the rhythmic loud dripping from the eaves, and the grey mid-morning sky, I seem to be right inside that girl and her longing for something unattainable beyond the rain. Yet as I head out in the downpour for my morning run, feeling the coolness on my skin and the wetness on my face, I am deeply grateful to be out in this drenching water, no longer a prisoner of the beating closet of heat and dryness the past weeks have brought.

And because I have WiFi and curiosity, I have just now looked up the story by keywords and found it immediately: All Summer in a Day, by Ray Bradbury, first published in 1954, a story of Margot, nine years old, from Earth, who now lives on Venus where the sun shines once for two hours every seven years. “Only when they sang about the sun and summer did her lips move as she watched the drenched windows.” A thoughtful blogger has posted the story here. After all these years of remembering it as sad and elusively beautiful, of having only pieces of it, of not knowing how to find it again, I’m almost topsy-turvy with how easy it was to rediscover this tale that through the years has shaped my thoughts on a deep level.

Lies and true things

Then this morning, after I wrote my first draft of this piece, came my weekly email digest from Maria Popova at Brain Pickings, with an article about Neil Gaiman’s take on Ray Bradbury and Fahrenheit 451.

The Power of Cautionary Questions: Neil Gaiman on Ray Bradbury’s ‘Fahrenheit 451,’ Why We Read, and How Speculative Storytelling Enlarges Our Humanity

Neil Gaiman (Photograph: Amanda Palmer)

The gist of Maria Popova’s article and her examination of Neil Gaiman’s book, for me, is the question of why stories matter. Why did this story that I read 46 years ago matter to me then, and why does it matter to me now?

But the aboutness of the book, like the aboutness of any book, Gaiman reminds us, is porous and responsive and in constant dynamic interaction with the context of its time, its place, and the locus of circumstances in the reader’s life at the particular moment of reading it.*

At the particular moment of reading All Summer in a Day, I felt, like Margot, an outsider in my school environment. Sensitive and somewhat small, I had friends but I also felt (and was) at risk of being bullied – either on my own account or because I stayed friends with others who were bullied. Unlike Margot, who had seen the sun on Earth, I didn’t particularly know something important the others didn’t know – although the truth of that is a longer story – but once when younger I was locked in the garage by another girl (who denied it) and later for a time I was shunned at school for having a secret written language with a friend at a different school. These happenings made me embrace my outsider identity at the same time that I wanted to be rid of it.

Childhood is confusing like that.

It turns out that Margot in Bradbury’s story did not, as I wrote above, travel through grief and fear to acceptance and humility, and ultimately embrace her identity as the only person on the planet who had not seen the sun that day.

That was all in my head.

The story ends before we know how she acted, and how the others were with her once daily life began again. I created a memory that served me: Margot let me identify with the outsider, but also heal my pain and confusion at this separation from my peers that I thought was unjustified, by creating a false memory of her epiphany in the closet.

Popova quotes Gaiman:

Ideas, written ideas, are special. They are the way we transmit our stories and our ideas from one generation to the next. If we lose them, we lose our shared history. We lose much of what makes us human. And fiction gives us empathy: it puts us inside the minds of other people, gives us the gift of seeing the world through their eyes. Fiction is a lie that tells us true things, over and over.*

This story was powerful for me because it was a tale of what could happen if a world’s shared history was lost; a story of jealousy and remorse; a story where ambivalence and thoughtlessness led to the unthinkable, but as is clear when Margot is freed, after the unthinkable happens, we must still find a way to go on. How will these children be with Margot now? Who will she be inside? It also taught me empathy: for Margot, that’s the easy part; for myself, as expected; for the other children, who found themselves having done a terrible thing without meaning to, because of fear, perhaps, or wanting not to be powerless, and now had to bear the consequences, or deny them.

I have told myself lies about the unfolding of this story – and the story is a lie in itself – but the details don’t matter. The emotional true things for me are these: We cling to what we’ve known. We yearn for what we believe we need. Others will do what they know, and they may harm us deeply. They may be deeply sorry. Whether they are sorry or not will not change what has happened. It may rain for seven years, or we may be in a drought condition, and we must find a way to live, with ourselves, with others, as a damaged person or a better one, and maybe with some kind of grace.


*Quotes are from Maria Popova, Brain Pickings

[I titled my piece before I found Ray Bradbury’s story online. It’s a self-evident title, but I also enjoy the unconscious reference back to his story, so I’m keeping it.]

Rooster’s big day

Rooster opens an eye. Dark. Of course. Gently, he ruffles his feathers, shifts his feet, opens both eyes. Clears his throat. Big day ahead. As usual. He will eat and drink later: now, there’s work to do.

He hears movement and knows the black hen is peering toward him. She likes to watch him work, likes to witness his skill, likes to be there for the first moment to know he has succeeded once again.

Rooster hops down from the rail and walks out the door of the coop to the wire fence. The end of the moon tosses a little light into the yard, and the stars wink. Goodnight, Rooster tells them, Your work is done. Sleep. He hears the black hen walk into the yard behind him. Then he clears his throat again, settles his feathers, and begins.

He knows he has timed it perfectly. He’s been at this for years. As a young cock he was sometimes hasty, started early, worked too hard. It is hard work, it takes stamina, but he knows his job and he never falters, never fails. And after the first big haul, it only takes a little well-timed effort here and there during the day until it’s time for night again.


Rooster pauses for a breath. One more. ERRR-a-ERRRRRRRRRRR! And there. The tiniest slip of pale golden light appears behind the trees on the far horizon. Rooster nods. The black hen sits down. ERRR-a-ERRR-a-ERRRRRR!, cries Rooster, as he pulls the sun into the sky.

Five Reasons to Love the Long Nights of Winter

After a bright afternoon’s quickening light
To be cradled by dusk,
Its slowly sit-down darkening

To contemplate the softening outline of the old cat
Curled warm on your grey-trousered lap

To watch the women and men with briefcases and backpacks
Walk from the bus toward darkened houses

To see a glow appear here or there and know
The tired homecomings have begun

To unravel the mysteries of your heart
That can only be glimpsed when the busy sun
Pulls up its thick shadows
And the arms of the evening encompass all


Snow Globe

The changes that can take place between the first and final versions of a poem astound me. Sometimes in my poetry journals I am lucky to find both preserved. Here are two approaches from 2010 to a snow-filled morning: haiku, version 2; and the original poem, version 1. It was my year of writing daily haiku, so I condensed the long version into the short one.

Snow Globe (2)

Before dawn, snow falls.
Light lifts, drifts, infuses this
creamy, cradled bowl.


Snow Globe (1)

Before dawn, the snow comes down.
The shed, the hydro wire, the metal
swing chair without its cushions–

all wear the same homage to sky.
Thick as cream, clouds fill the bowl
above us and the flakes tumble
til we are only shapes and shades of clouds.

In our bowl there is no sun
there is no moon
the streetlamps have no power.
We are lit by reflected glory,

a steady glow of grey and ochre
rising from the ground, falling from the sky,
assimilating every atom in our snow globe.


Feb. 23, 2010