Sunday morning I was out feeding the chickens and saw three hawks gliding overhead. (You can only see one in the photo, but there were three. Trust me.)
They circled and soared, intertwining arcs in the air. So beautiful they were . . . I watched, craning my neck until I felt that I was falling into the sky, and had to look quickly down to ground myself again.
I had a flying dream once, nearly forty-five years ago.
I still remember how it feels to fly.
Aren't these beautiful? I have no idea what kind they are, but I loved the way they caught the late afternoon sun . . . Happy Monday!
It's raining! We had half an inch or so this afternoon, and now it's raining again . . . a nice, slow, steady rain. I knew my watering would have some effect! And we need it, too; we're four or five inches down, and in drought conditions. We've been watering the garden and flowerbeds (fortunately we have a well), but it's not the same as rain. I'd gladly give up tomorrow's tailgate market for a day of rain . . .
The maples and tame cherries are blooming. . . it must be spring!
This is the view from the back porch. That round thing in the corner is a big flowerpot where I used to grow things, but the cats kept sleeping in it so I just left the dirt for them to nap in . . .
I wanted to take a picture of William, but he did not cooperate and remained snug in his little leanto, happily eating alfalfa hay.
And this is what was going on inside:
An email from afghans for Afghans: their aim was to get 5oo hats for the Jan. 20th airlift to Afghanistan. They received over 1,000! Plus nearly 200 wool children's sweaters . . . all bound for displaced Afghani families.
It's snowing! And has been since I rose at seven (yes, I overslept); there's an inch or so on the ground. The wind's blowing hard, so there's not a lot on the trees, but the neighbor's field is a lovely swath of white, and the evergreens in the side yard are holding some. I don't suppose I will ever lose the wonder I feel when it snows. Gray sky, blowing white . . . I love the feeling that I'm alone in the world. Everything is mysteriously changed . . . remember Mole in the Wild Wood when it snowed, and the familiar wood became strange and frightening, and Ratty came to find him, and they stumbled upon Mr. Badger's door, and were brought into his safe and cosy home, with its study where Badger dozed by the fire with a red handkerchief covering his face, and hams hung from the rafters? That's what snow makes me think of. And one of Brian's books when he was small, The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats . . . done all in paper collage, the little boy out playing in the snow and coming into his warm house afterward.
The bird feeders are teeming with activity (in fact, I need to refill the suet feeders), and there are dozens of little birds on the ground . . . juncos, sparrows, titmice, and those other little black and white ones I can't remember the name of . . . there are cardinals in the bare weeping cherry outside my workroom window, and a bluejay or two.
The chickens are not amused by snow: they either hunker down in the house, or go out and mill about in the straw under the house, glaring and grumbling to themselves and occasionally venturing out for a drink or (I suspect) to see whether it's still cold and wet out there . . . I retrieved nine eggs this morning when I fed them and I imagine that will be most of today's yield.
All the cats are inside, draped over various bits of furniture or sprawled in front of the woodstove: all except Mr. Poozle and LeeLee, the two diehards. . . "we have to go out, things are happening out there!" They go out, stay a while (until their toes get cold, I imagine) and then come back to sit pitifully outside the back door until someone notices them. They come in, warm up by the stove, and out they go again.
I'm inside, working on some fabric bead samples for a class I'll be teaching online at DollStreet in March; my workspace is strewn with beads and fibers and bits of bright fabric. (and cats, naturally . . . ) I love the snowlight on a day like this. Everything has a silvery cast. I believe lambent is the word I want here, but I'm too comfortable to get up and find the dictionary. . . John is still in bed across the room, and I'm listening to Yolonda Kondonassis play Vivaldi's Four Seasons on her harp, working and watching the snow fall and the birds eat . . . Nowhere to go, the woodrack is full, and after a while I'll make some gingersnaps, and there will be hot chocolate and cookies and reading by the woodstove, and lamb chops and yellow rice for supper.
If it isn't a perfect day, it's certainly close enough for this world.
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