Lately

It has grown very quiet. I can still hear distant katydids, but if any remain nearby they have ceased to sing. Colder nights are coming soon, and then the musical insects of the night will all be gone. There might be rain by Sunday, in fact. I am anticipating the sound of it, and the scent. This summer seems to have dragged on forever, and I am left without energy. Unless I get the stimulation of a significant change soon, I'm sure my brain will wither away and my head become a mere husk.

There were deer again tonight, lurking in the darkness, making their presence known only by the distinctive soft clop of their hooves on the street. A rose hedge down the block was in full bloom yesterday. I expect it to have far fewer flowers when I see it today.

I've uploaded another picture, taken on the same day as the fog pictures recently posted, but looking up the mountains, away from the fog. If you click your way to the largest image file, you will see a terrifying house looking very small on a ridge jutting into the canyon. The house itself is not terrifying, I'm sure, but its location is. Some people like living on cliffs, but I'm not one of them. The view from the place is undoubtedly splendid. I simply prefer to live in a somewhat less precipitous locale, not to mention one less exposed to the dangers of fire than the isolated dwelling in this picture.

Canyon View Looking North along Feather River Canyon, late afternoon on a January day.

Dance

A few months ago, some weedy plant took root among the exotic domesticated flowers in the bed alongside the driveway. It planted itself sparingly- seven or eight stalks came up, growing rapidly to a height of three to five feet. I let them be. Eventually, they put forth small yellow flowers, and insects buzzed about the tall, slender stalks. In summer's withering heat, the plants soon went to seed, their green parts turning brown, but still they stood. Now comes a gray day of scudding marbled cloud, no trace of blue in any part of the sky. The breeze rises, refreshing if not yet entirely cool. I watch the weedy grasses sway. Their heads bend half the plant's height to the ground while nearby plants barely stir. All the bushes sit stolidly unmoved, the gladiolus spikes show barely a ripple, and even the soft, yellowing leaves of the peach tree merely rustle a bit as they tremble in the gusts. But the unnamed weeds dance, bowing to one another and the garden and the humming pines, sweep from side to side, back and forth, as though hearing music to which the other plants are deaf. The pines and oaks hear it in their loftiest branches, though faintly, but near the ground only these supple weeds respond. I watch them, and the music is revealed to me by their pliant grace.