![]() The water-filled bowl reflects the waxing moon when she is nearly full and Venus when she sets as evening star. The basin catches plunked rain drops, arcs of water raised over blown snapdragons, misty rainbows shed from dark rhododendron leaves. It is dry by morning, the bottom scattered with tiny locust leaves, wind-blown fluff. It balances aslant on the thumbprint-ringed stump tipping down the hill. The copper bowl weathered to a green patina. When the full August moon sets the morning after the assembly, the raucous cawing chorus across the valley falls silent. Perhaps they are summoned to mourn the passing of their Queen and anoint a new one, perhaps to draw new boundaries, affirm alliances, or arrange marriages. Some rare years convocation arrives, a great gathering of the entire clan called together. From the birch outpost, the crows defended their rookery from red-tailed hawks and falcons, while providing cover to the neighborhood doves and chickadees.ĭuring the August moon, young crows audition before their elders stationed at the top of nearby oaks to compete for their place in the tribe: scout, gleaner, nanny, or warrior. It was a crow tree, where princelings came to find food and water, watched clouds gather over the butte, and bickered from the branches. McCrea Posted on SeptemCategories #amwriting, astrology, calendar, Creative nonfiction, creative writing, pacific northwest, prose, seasons, weather, Writing Tags equinox, Ezra Pound, justice, wildfire 3 Comments on Empty Cauldron I Need to Break DownĪ shallow copper bowl rests on a white birch stump left behind after the ice storm killed the tree. He hasn’t been the same since the fires, she said. We fell into polite, socially-distanced step with a young woman and Otter, her red heeler. Mercy and I went out to the river so she could finally swim after two weeks, picked the ripe feral figs along the way. There’s a hitch in my left hip from curling downward, especially at night, hugging my knees and straining for rain to fall from the eaves. It’s still the Year of the Rat and though we gnawed off the paw, we are still caught in the trap. There will be neither justice nor balance this season. Viral Load= Distance x Duration + DensityīLM= Black Lives Matter AND Bureau of Land ManagementĮquinox arrives tomorrow morning when the sun moves into the constellation of Libra, the sign of the scales symbolizing justice and balance, when days and nights equalize for a trace moment of exhalation. The water bucket is still out on the hill for the wild things, but they have gone their own way, braver than me.Įach month of this astounding year taught a new acronym-filled vocabulary of disaster: ![]() The smoke ebbs and flows, from yellow to orange, but not the deep purple of last week. Lightning and thunder cracked the shell, and rain-O-sweet-blessed-rain fell a bucket full. The fires still burn, but the solid curtain of toxic smoke begins to fold pleat-by-pleat. McCrea Posted on NovemCategories #amwriting, astrology, calendar, Creative nonfiction, creative writing, dogs, pacific northwest, weather, Writing Tags Scorpio New Moon, Vigilance, Year of the Rat 4 Comments on A Feather Empty Cauldron Just the weight of a feather~ Author Kim K. It is last quarter now, in this cursed Year of the Rat. I watch for the creature to surface for air downstream. The coipú, the swamp rat, startles as the dog emerges from the mist, slips off the bank and dives underwater. There is deep pooling water along the trails we tread–sky traps ensnaring clouds and gobbling them whole. Waft through empty spaces like vapor, never noticed by human eyes, observed only by the heron at the river bank who sees and, wishing herself invisible, remains unseen. ![]() The Warrior turns for the third and final battle.ĭress in mist, all the colors of air, to slip between: chalk, slate, smoke blue, steel. The Messenger knows the secrets, where the bodies and the booty lie buried in the bog. Venus trails and lingers, fingering the Feather and Scales as Maat she still walks the burning road. Black moon in a black sign at the end of the Via Combusta, wait for the lights to meet and seed a new turn. There will be more and they will keep coming.Īn inch of rain pounds against the stove cap, wind whistles through the chimney cap, eaves overflow with leaves and water spills broadside. The first rager of winter bellows in from the Pacific, swirling wind circling southeast in the valley bowl, bends the birch and tears the last frond feathers from the locust.
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