Nature's orchestra

At dawn freight train wind

hurtles rain in staccato bursts,

a cacophony assaulting the senses.

sgreerpitt

February 5, 2014

A January of Small Stones 30

Deep in the night, down the street
dogs bark frantically, a great crescendo
at the affront of two cats calmly strolling
beneath the street lamp.

sgreerpitt
January 30, 2014

A January of Small Stones 29

Steep driveway arching away from the road,

frosted with a inch of smooth, sparkling snow,

touched only by tiny cat prints,

a perfect single line up the center. 

January 29, 2014

A January of Small Stones 27 & 28

Two meditations on the cold

#1 physical

Hat, hood, scarf,
‘til nothing shows but eyes,
and still the cold is a knife
in the lungs,
I retreat indoors,
Wheezing and coughing,
Struggling to breathe.

#2 Mental

The cold is amber, crystal clear,
allowing the tiniest details to be seen,
while immobilizing my spirit.
My eyes records a hundred small stones,
but my hands stuck in amber cannot write.

A January of Small Stones 23

In the snowy woods

unexpected robins flock

flashing rufous breasts,

rise, wheel and settle again.

January 23, 2014

sgreerpitt

A January of Small Stones 22

Ode to an Office Chair Now Deceased

Four sturdy ball-bearing wheels

to scoot quickly out of the way

or cozy up to the desk,

a smoothly twirling seat

from keyboard to desk to bookcase

and back over and over,

soft padding for the rump,

firm lumbar support,

and a back just right

for perching cats.

A few short years together

ended in an awkward crash.

January 22, 2014

sgreerpitt

A January of Small Stones 21

chill eiderdown blanket

covers imperfections,

creates unity in white and black.

January 21, 2014

sgreerpitt

A January of Small Stones 19

dark crisp air
carries lilting melody
from a penny whistle
calling the "king of the faeries"
but only the dogs 
set dance in reply.

January 19, 2014

A January of Small Stones 18

daily three or four times

deep booms and tremors

of dynamite

are followed by the long

waterfall of rock against rock,

the assault of the mountain

continues.

January 18, 2014

A January of Small Stone 17

That rare moment, just before dawn

between shifts, silence settles on the mountain,

and only the brook burbles softly

while the moon makes silver ships

of clouds scudding across an inky sky.

January 17, 2014

A January of Small Stones 16

Moments before setting,

slipping beneath

the grey cloud blanket,

Rumplestiltskin sun

turns hillsides of straw

to gold.

January 16, 2014 

sgreerpitt

A January of Small Stones 13

January 13, 2014

desert

open the faucet
tiny dribbles 
then sucking air,
the pipes are dry.

flood

small, repetitive, insistent sound:
tick, tick?
tap, tap?
drip, drip?
search reveals
spreading puddles 
from the water cooler.

January 13, 2014
#smallstone

A January of Small Stones 12

Old Locutus

Body light with age

she concedes to lifting,

old claws catch

as she kneads my chest.

Her ears so silky

but tiny rough spots

mar her back.

I stroke the hollow under her chin

and a warm loofah tongue

washes my knuckles.

We drowse warmly

in the early morning dark.

January 13, 2014

A January of Small Stones 11

Waiting for dog in a dark alive
with ceaseless shifting pines in the wind,
the small brook swollen with rain
beats against its banks,
and behind it all 
the mechanical clang and scrape of the dragline
on the mountain.

January 11, 2014
‪#‎smallstone‬

A January of Small Stones 10

Neither dark nor light,
neither warm nor cold,
lingering to breath
moisture laden air,
mild January twilight.

January 10, 2014
#smallstone

A January of Small Stones 09

empty hallway,

two small boys,

rosy cheeks,

sparkling eyes,

huge grins,

kick their legs

against the bench,

heads together

playing games.

January 9, 2014

sgreerpitt

A January of Small Stones 08

January 8, 2014

On the porch

where feral cats

daily find their food

are unexpected

delicate traces

left by feathered guests.

sgreerpitt

A January of Small Stones 07

January 7, 2014

sunshine beckons.

toboggan snugged, shawl wrapped,

coat buttoned, bear-waddle

to the mailbox.

fragility

I'm participating in a month long a January Mindful Writing project from Writing Our Way Home (http://writingourwayhome.com). The idea is to get people to slow down and pay more attention to the world (especially the natural world) around them by writing about it. 

The project is conceived to allow those people who rush to and fro from work to shopping to home without looking up and outward to pay more attention to the world passing by. I am not one of those people.  I'm the kind of person who need to be told to look at the traffic and my instrument panel instead constantly scanning the hillsides and skies for trees, flowers, birds, etc.  I've been known to stop my car on the side of the road five or six times during my commute to take a picture of some lovely moment. 

Slowing down and paying attention to the natural world has not never really been a problem for me, however, making the effort to put those observations in writing has been. So my month long project is less one of paying attention than it is of turning my normal level of observation and attentiveness into words. 

Today my attention was captured by something different...my attention was captured by "the water" (see my earlier post this week "This is Water"). "The water" is our advanced industrial civilization, the medium through which we float taking so much for granted. 

I have spent the day noticing that the electricity has stayed on without fail all day, and that due to that electricity my house, this little box of wood and siding, has maintained a constant temperature of 64 degrees, all the time that the wind has blown, snow has fallen and swirled and outside temperatures slid from 18 degrees at seven this morning to 3 degrees twelve hours later. The heat pump has continue to cycle on and off, the compressor to work, the fan to blow. The lights have remained steady and cheerful. My computer and internet have continued to function normally.

We know from experience that this does not always happen, heavy snow, ice and cold have on multiple occasions over the years resulted in downed power lines and darkness. I know (because I do have TV and internet today) that else where in North America there are people who do not have electricity, and must struggle to find warmth and light to survive the cold. 

Such disruptions seem, anecdotally to have become more common, not just here but across the country.  I have an increasing sense of the fragility of industrial electricity based civilization. 

A January of Small Stones 05

January 5, 2014

the woods alight,

afternoon glow,

trees of gold

beckon the way. 

sgreerpitt