The Wind Blows Wherever it Pleases
February: Thinking of Flowers by Jane Kenyon
Now wind torments the field,
turning the white surface back
on itself, back and back on itself,
like an animal licking a wound.
Nothing but white–the air, the light;
only one brown milkweed pod
bobbing in the gully, smallest
brown boat on the immense tide.
A single green sprouting thing
would restore me. . . .
Then think of the tall Delphinium,
swaying, or the bee when it comes
to the tongue of the burgundy lily.
Today I wandered in the sun and in the wind. Today I wandered hiking trails and boggy areas. Today I wandered across a bridge, down a sledding hill and up to the top of a look out tower. It was a nice wander made nicer by the warmth of the sun on my skin, but more challenging because of the wind blowing into one ear, whistling around in my cranium before exiting the other ear and leaving an ache behind. My camera was looking for a friend to photograph, but my eyes wanted to take in the *big picture* today and while I saw the tall dry grass from last year bent in the sun, the tiny pointy leaves of the wild roses unfurling from the brambly branches, the red berries on branches with sunlight shining through, I didn’t make myself stop to get better acquainted, other than one time to have a heart to heart with the bolts fastening the steps of the look out tower.
It has been a strange winter. The snow has left as quickly as it came, the daffodil leaves are 2 inches high and pails are attached to the sugar maples. The warmth of the sun is expected at this point in the year. The tapped maple trees are not. I wonder what summer will bring us…
Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Sometimes we are put in a certain place at a certain time for something to happen. Today, I had planned to shoot at a little park in Three Rivers, MI while my son worked out during his Hour of Power with some men from the church. After driving 30 minutes to get to the gym, finding out the Super Bowl superseded and driving 30 minutes to get home, I headed south into Indiana to a little watery spot. Before long my car turned itself east and I found myself driving to Bonneyville to shoot the look-out tower. After a bit of a hike off the beaten path, I passed by a group of people in conversation and climbed the steps to the top of the tower and with shaking hands (have I told you that I am scared of heights?) snapped 5 quick photos of the panorama before me. As I was preparing to hike back to my car, an older gentleman who had been in the group walked with me as we talked about cameras, technology and the such. He went on to tell me that he hadn’t spoken to his youngest daughter for three years and she wouldn’t return his calls, but that he had texted her this past week and simply told her, “I love you. Dad” She responded to tell him that she was working out the problems in her life and that she loves him as well. To be in this certain place at this certain time because this man needed to tell someone about the love he has for his daughter is such a gift.
(By the way… My shaky hands did not make a nice photo from the top of the tower)
Cold is Laying Hard on the Land
Late, O Miller by Robert Louis Stevenson
Late, O miller,
The birds are silent,
The darkness falls.
In the house the lights are lighted.
See, in the valley they twinkle,
The lights of home.
Late, O lovers,
The night is at hand;
Silence and darkness
Clothe the land.
I have been taking a bit of a break from being online and even skipped out on my camera for those two days. Could I be lazy, or is it just that I feel a bit burned out? Maybe a bit of both.
I had to take Booker the cat to the vet today – she is losing hair and has open sores from the damned fleas that we can not get a handle on. She got a shot and some new meds and I came home a steamed the entire house again. Poor little cat is allergic to the dratted bugs. I hate them and I hate chickens. Enough said.
Now the spousal unit and I are getting ready to head out for a date. Short but sweet, but that is my day. Have a great night, dear friends.
It's a Pure Kind of Thing
Evening Waterfall by Carl Sandburg
WHAT was the name you called me?—
And why did you go so soon?
The crows lift their caw on the wind,
And the wind changed and was lonely.
The warblers cry their sleepy-songs
Across the valley gloaming,
Across the cattle-horns of early stars.
Feathers and people in the crotch of a treetop
Throw an evening waterfall of sleepy-songs.
What was the name you called me?
I knew it was too good to last and I am back to “night”; and so I bring to you, night 122.
The dahlia gardens at Bonneyville Mill call me each year with their vibrant color and the beauty of the blooms. You would think that after 4 years of shooting the same garden, I might get sick of it, but each year brings new explosions of color. I can’t resist them. The Elkhart branch of the American Dahlia Society outdoes itself every year. Today as I darted in and out of the rows of flowers (dart might be a strong word), a lovely Hispanic family came over to look at the flowers and to take a couple of photos of each other holding their sweet little girl. I asked if they would like me to take a photo for them so they could get one all together and they did a nice little pose in the midst of the flowers.
I had to force myself to walk away from the garden after I had taken 67 photos and I had to force myself to delete a good many of the shots because they were all nice to look at. I have found that when I have that many photos that I like, I have to do the split second choices. Open two and quickly decide which is better. I prefer to think that my first instinct is a good one and that I didn’t toss the best shot of the day. My favorite of today is the pink bud, which is why it didn’t make it into a collage, but I am second guessing my decision to delete the other two photos of it. Oh well. Que sera sera…