|Big Brook Bog -- very early morning|
Friday, August 31, 2012
It was the end of August and time for our annual pilgrimage to the Great North Woods. The days were warm and sunny under a brilliant blue sky. We saw deer, otters, loons, hawks and harriers, fox and one very large, very dead porcupine.
We've been coming to northern New Hampshire since the summer of 1985. It's a place we love for its wildlife, vast stretches of forest, and its waterways.
Midweek we had a surprise shower, a real drencher, and we ended up sitting it out in the car. We had just enough time to paddle to the landing before the bog rocked with whitecaps and wind-driven rain.
After that storm, dense fog covered the waterways in the early mornings. The temperatures of water, air, and land were shifting, changing, signaling an end to summer.
I moved forward cautiously, listening for the tell-tale sounds of moose or deer. Nothing. Nothing but vague shapes slipping in and out of the mist.
It was the storyteller's dream!
Faintly, a tussock of grass and scrubby shrubs formed in the mist and fog. It was then we knew the Trickster had played his hand and caught us in a terrific joke. We laughed and howled, and most likely, woke every living thing on water and land.
It was a very different sort of dream and magic!
Posted by gretchen at 11:39 PM
Friday, August 10, 2012
Words pour across the page,
spill over the edge,
like so many beads from a broken
cord, falling from my neck.
They roll above wide pine boards,
lodge in wooden grooves
like wayward thoughts, I retrieve them
missing one, now two.
So much like beads from a shattered
strand, the words shift and change
restrung, refigured, recombined,
pattern, color, rhythm, line ---
what I see, redefined.
Posted by gretchen at 1:40 PM