Where a few snowflakes fall now and then, where the cold ebbs and flows and ebbs once again, as we check to see if it's a polar fleece day out there, or a winter jacket/hat/almost gloves kind of day.
This morning, I rose from the warm bed where my beloved dozed, past the white cat curled between us and left beneath the covers; past the enormo Shepherd, black as night, fit right below Kevin's knees up on the high bed, as the almost seven o'clock morning light filtered in through the closed curtains. Bare feet cold on the cold floor, and we dont' even know from cold yet.
Down into the kitchen, I heard the whoommph of the pup jump from the bed to follow. Outside, holding the leash, my feet on the cement stoop out back, I watched with scrinched eyes as he circled about to pee. In the vastness of the sky, there I found today's flavor, the pink and blue layers of horizon, as the five Crow siblings came cawing by to check out the new compost leavings.
Clothes on, polar fleece turtleneck scarf, winter coat, old dilapidated sneakers set, off we went in the car, to go by the farmer's fields, out by the Connecticut.
And there, down the road, I saw a neighbor with florescent orange everything, their buddies with the same, and the Shepherd off the chain, about to run about in the woods all day long, hunting. I wondered, as I drove by, what that kind of life must be like. See, often we have no idea what another life may be like. So whether ours is full of lousy bleak stuff or filled to the brim with lovely easy peasy stuff, we have little concept or depth of perspective, unless experience or motivation veers us in the direction of realization.
My pup here is 2 1/2 now; Shepherds grow til they are 3, and mature a bit late too, so he has been having this explosion of capacity to be trained..to learn and convey. So we arrive at the fields, and I stand and tell him to WAIT, with the long lead clipped to his harness, the ball and thrower in my hand, as I look about to make sure I can let him LEAP out of the car and off down the road to have some fun. RUN! I tell him, and he's off like a dark coal black shot of joy.
We pass by the Burdock grove safely, meander down past the pale yellow corn stalks remaining after harvest. There are reams of home entrances everywhere...and because of the rain yesterday and then the freeze, small footprints left in the mud, of mice, of groundhogs, and more. The tall stalks and their remaining leaves buffeted by the winds, the many below who stay awake able to come out and retrieve corn kernels all winter long, while the fox and the coyote come by for them.
Down further the Fo Ti stand, bronze and shining, their seeds dried and awaiting long days and nights of winter rain and snow, to pull them to the ground, perchance to take rood and grow next spring.
The pile of pumpkins dumped by farmers is slowly diminishing, as deer come by and have breakfast, and lunch. I've been teaching Dante to DROP THE BALL! before he races off toward a real or imagined creature, off in the spare riverside woods, or brush, and he often does, before disappearing on some exciting run.
Farther back, behind a stand of trees that gets plowed around, there has been a van parked each morning. Someone without a home, but a vehicle, who stays on the town road, hidden somewhat from the people who live and farm here, right next to all the dirt roads leading to privately owned camps, with big signs warning to Keep Out and No Trespassing. This guy has started up his car and driven past me, smiling and waving, several times, and I smile and wave back, kind of hoping some of the younger or older Good Old Boys don't realize a person of color is back here, near their haunts.
The sky is a rippled blue with grey clouds spattered across overhead, the wildlife relatively quiet, save the confused Pheasant I come across now and then, quickly taking my dog in hand, and turning about before he notices. They have been home grown by our government, in pens, not allowed to fly, and now are released all over.....many near my home, many here, wandering about, almost better to be hunted than cluelessly try to fend for themselves in the cold.
Father down the road, there is a car driven up upon farmer's fields, which I find myself objecting to a great deal, which then comes about, and drives into successive camps, merrily past all the signs and round the carefully places gates, til I begin to have a tiny inkling of what it may feel like to be from here, to be grown from here, and have this explosion happen in the 70's of what used to be referred to as counter culture, that took over a few nearby towns, until the monied and the oblivious flooded, the fancy expensive stores filled, and the working class were left to fend for themselves.
The two in the car slow down as they pass me, stop and say something about how cold it is outside. I'm curious, because it's maybe 28", so I smile back, holding the dog's collar, and say that no , with a good winter coat and scarf it's actually quite nice. And they guffaw politely, drive off and into several more camps, as I feel my indignation and protectiveness of these local people and their fields and camps grow and grow. How odd, to go ahead and drive where you wish, just because noone is around to stop you. But finally, off they go, out of sight, and I return to my peaceful time of day.
When there is a bit of energy, and here is the irreplaceable out doors. And I am out in it, hungry for its stark beauty and the wise ways of the wild ones. Where I can walk down the hard frozen dirt road and peer down those camp paths to the beautiful full blue of the river, as some hawk flies by silently, all economy of survival and movement, and the precious day begins.
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