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Twilight. October 9, 2007

Posted by littlebangtheory in Art and Nature.
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The air stills; the deer stir. Scotopsin becomes rhodopsin, and The Moon rules The Earth.

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We eat, we sleep, we dream. We awake to the light of a newborn world.

There would be no tomorrow without the passing of today.

Sleep well, my friends.

Autumn in New England October 4, 2007

Posted by littlebangtheory in Art and Nature.
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Nature. Child of Mother Earth and Father Sky. The Temple where my soul goes to die and be reborn. The reason I carry on through the lies and the pain and the bullshit.

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In a season which has been sorely lacking the vibrant colors for which October in The Berkshires is justifiably famous, the only significant color this year is at the water’s edge.

For this small blessing I thank you, Mother and Father.

A Conversation September 28, 2007

Posted by littlebangtheory in Art and Nature.
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A warm September night in a deep pine forest. I’m stacking firewood for the long-anticipated gathering of Weekend Warriors, come to slay rocks, trade tales and get loose among friends.

The Sun has departed, something about a prior engagement to the West. The Full Moon is expected, but is fashionably late. I drop an armload of dry wood into the roofed crib, my hands and arms streaked black with pitch, sticky, smelling gloriously of pine, and turn to appreciate the evening’s symphony: cicadas in the meadow down by the river, a chorus of tree frogs surrounding me, the distant hum of short-haulers dieseling up the hill on their way to Points Unknown.

Then you glide in, silent as the sky, curiosity conquering caution, come to see what the commotion could be. I smile, and settle back against a tall stump. I had hoped, dreamed, wished for you without having the temerity to speak your name, without daring to expect you, without believing I deserved you.

But here you are, securing your perch, taking my measure, and before long, asking the Eternal Question, your lucid eyes fixed upon my sorry silhouette, “Whooo?

I let the night slide past like a slow-moving cloud. There’s a pace to this, like leaves falling, like a vole snuffling a circuitous path toward its destiny.

In time I take in the night air, cup my hands about my mouth, and exhale a reply: “Hoo-hoooo!”

Your head swivels, tilts, feathers fluffing. You digest me as the minutes pass.

Then, shoulders hunched, forward-leaning, you catch an unseen current and glide away, not away, but to a nearer pulpit. Now my head swivels, shoulders hunched, a lesson well learned, thank you, and I ask again: “Whooo?

The thinness of my entreaty startles me. I had meant to sing your song, but instead had sung mine.

We’ve had this conversation before, you and I.

Your forward lean becomes a trajectory, and you disappear into the night.