Flown

Long past nightfall, a large and raucous flock of waterfowl- cranes or swans or large geese of some sort- came winging northward, passing directly over my house. The moonless night concealed them from view, but their loud calls betrayed their approach. One call would be answered by another, then more, and then the whole flock would become an airborne cacophony. Then, as they were overhead, there was only the wave of flapping wings, and two or three single calls as they skimmed the treetops along the block. I could hear them departing, as the entire flock once again burst forth in some exuberant avian exchange. Two or three minutes passed before full silence fell again.

The birds must have been heading to one of the nearby lakes for a night of fishing. As dawn nears, I listen for their return, but thus far, it only the wind that has returned, brushing the pines, making them whisper and hum. No other sound breaks the placid hour, and Sunday will bring no noise of early commuters. But there is a good chance that the day will soon be wakened by the birds. If they wait until early light, I might catch a glimpse of their dim shapes as they fly south, back to the valley wetlands. It would be a nice sight to carry into my dreams.


( Sunday Verse )

Befogged

Another day of clouds, though they went from being cirrus to being small puffs of cumulous. Perhaps late showers will ensue, but for now, there are banks of fog drifting about, bringing bits of mist. A couple of nights ago, a house at the end of the block sprouted Christmas lights. A small, non-coniferous front yard tree there has been festooned with blinking green, red and yellow lights, and a row of large, translucent plastic candy canes containing red lights lines the adjacent driveway. The patches of fog now wreath this display, causing it to dim and brighten, dim and brighten. The lighted tree looks better in the fog. When thus softened, its lights, because of the form of its branches, looks rather like a giant, bejeweled butterfly. The canes still look like canes, though. I consider them irredeemable, though a fog of sufficient density might reduce my distant view of them to no more than a diffuse, pale red glow. I might enjoy that.

I am, of course, enjoying the fog, and the drops of mist that alight on my face. The air seems less cold now that it has been given substance, and the wooly closeness of it is comforting. Should the fog continue to wrap the forest for a few hours more, the trees will begin to drip dew, and the muffled night be filled with the sound of soft drumming. That will make it even better.