Words, Feelings, Stories

He put out a hand and leaned it against a tree trunk, while he gasped. He had been running, and he was sweaty and breathless. He had run and run, and finally ran into a fog bank, and after that he was finally able to stop to catch his breath. He couldn’t remember why he was running. Was he running to, or running from? He thought it was probably from, because he had run into the White for safety and reprieve.  But who or what was he running from, and why? Was he a child, running from punishment?  Was he a man running from some natural disaster? Was he running from a person or a thing? Or maybe even just a thought, or a fear? Why didn’t he know the answers? And where was he? While he had been running, his feet had known where they were going, so he was on home territory, but oddly enough, he couldn’t remember where home was, other than where he was.  Maybe he was dreaming?  Maybe it was the fog? Fog could do weird things, not just to sight, but also to sound, to ...

I need trees! The pictures just aren't doing it today At @20 degree temps, I can admire the waterfalls from my chair, but it's just not working for trees. I need the shaded hidden green areas where the giants dwell. They needn't be green themselves, which is fairly rare in this place at this time of year, but they need to be somewhere in the verdant hidden spaces that only tree lovers can find and cherish. And touch and smell, and be immersed in. I need to put my hand on the bark, and feel in my mind the stirring of the sap as the year begins again. I want to feel the moss, live and lush from recent snowfalls, or dry and dusty from cold, and feel the incipient life therein. I want life to blossom and winter to end. I want to touch the trees that touch the stars.

This cold winter's morning, as the darkness edges away from the horizon, I find myself wishing that I was--elsewhere. And maybe elsewhen. What would I be doing, and where would I be? Sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, wearing flannels and wool, wrapped in a blanket, a quilt, a comforter. Which or how many of these would depend on the temperature of the air and the prevailing winds. In my hands a hot drink. It doesn't matter what. Tea, coffee, cocoa, a toddy, hot lemonade. The steam from the drink both warms and wets my nose. The warmth of the contents warms the cup and the hands that hold the cup. Or do the hands warm the cup, keeping the fresh warmth from escaping? No matter. It and I am warm and we hold one another in warmth. Before me are treetops. Behind me, behind my home, are trees. Layers of trees. Rows of trees. Rising solemnly in ranks and ledges and lines. They stand silent, or Not-so-silent, in the breaking of day. They rustle, they murmur, reminding me of stretc...

It's an eerie night out here tonight on my porch. The frogs are there, and the crickets, and the locusts, but there's something different. The night sky glowers pink-orange.Not really strange, because there are pink street lights beyond the trees, but this is not the usual color, even when clouds are hanging low. There are strange Shadows flickering throughout the yard. In the flower beds right in front of me. Along the front of the building on the left side of the yard. On the cars in the parking lot to my right. The Shadow's wander ihe alley and appear from behind and alongside the houses. They peek. They scamper. They scurry from here to there. Lights and reflections wink and blink. Things move. Things rock, wiggle, twitch. The wind blows gently but not unusually. It seems a night like many others. And yet. The night choir sings on and on. The pink sky outlines the trees clearly. And Shadows creep across the street and dart through the yard. It may be the wind. It is pro...

I hear the peepers tonight, and the little green frogs that hide in the grass, and the groggy frogs from the flat topped roofs across the street. In the trees between the Main Street houses and the Union Street houses I hear many chattering insects. It sounds as if the treetops may be being used as pillows by an invisible giant. While he may not be seen, he can certainly be heard. He is snoring, and the sound is berated through The treetops. I don't know if it's different species of cicadas, or different sexes, but one group is the murmuring breath in, and then I hear the buzzing exhale that finally peters out. The quiet mumble again, and the loud breathy buzz. It may be that there are other insects - grasshoppers, katydids, mantises - that I no longer recognize easily. Bats are zipping and dipping around, as fast as a blink. Black Shadow's against an orange sky. Occasionally two will dance together for a moment before vanishing. Yes, nightfall is a joy to the ears and a di...