the late
December rains filling the trees and underbrush and grasses and herbs all
across the conservation lands and the small mountain range and the rich swift
Connecticut with fresh water, protect tive against the coldest winter spell.
Near fifty degrees, the plants a bit confused about coming or going and all.
But the brief cold nights were just enough to convince all but a few winged ones to feel that urge for going , so that now outside we have the Canadiens, come down from their northern summers stay, to gather in the forests and at times at the feeders as they continue on in their days .
And here I ready myself , wrapping shoes, pulling on an irreverent raincoat that will perhaps last 15 minutes or so, still relegating most of my own rainfall to that which will stream down my sides.
And by my side will be my beloved friend, with his Long Coat Shepherd genes, making him more of an absorbent elegant mop that the typical Shepherd double coated fur more impervious to long rains.
And off we 'll go, down to the farmers fields , where still the slugs remain inside for the day, the large Groundhog community just underground in complex burrowry, tantalizing enough, each day, to the furiously digging dog.
Yesterday it was all for naught, as, when we arrived, so did one farmer. So, not off leash run run and thundering about with those big-boy muscles ; but rather a frustratingly sedate on leash stroll, making the best of things .
The farmer ( and we 're thinking male, but lest we forget, they come in two sexes, and multiple other colors and sizes) was driving their truck over their cabbage patch ( and now we confer amongst ourselves, as to why Kale and Spinach, let's say, just are there, but Cabbages have Patches?) .
But no matter , there they were, thoughtfully perusing the patch I walk by each day, selecting a cabbage or two on this dark winters day , then driving a few yards further, possibly because they caught sight of a better one?
As I stand with Dante, wondering if they have a cold back shed to put them in, cold and dry and dark , for pulling those nutritious rounds of soft enveloped leaves out, hefting the head , and bringing them into a warm kitchen to steam for a meal .
So today , there will be no one there , the homeless person in their van long gone , and the hunter with their lab tired of the hunting game , after wandering around this and the arroyo and God knows what other places, sometimes errantly BAM BAMING their gun fifteen times, so I wonder what on earth kind of hunting they may be up to. Or if instead , they are some kind of kid/adult, despite being around my own age, just glancing life- stealing bullets off any old thing they choose.
Today in the pouring rain I will be alone, smiling , soaking up the quiet and the pattering of the rainfall , the newly born Winter and the dreams and gifts of one hard dirt road and foggy tree limbs, poetic in the sheer morning light.
Near fifty degrees, the plants a bit confused about coming or going and all.
But the brief cold nights were just enough to convince all but a few winged ones to feel that urge for going , so that now outside we have the Canadiens, come down from their northern summers stay, to gather in the forests and at times at the feeders as they continue on in their days .
And here I ready myself , wrapping shoes, pulling on an irreverent raincoat that will perhaps last 15 minutes or so, still relegating most of my own rainfall to that which will stream down my sides.
And by my side will be my beloved friend, with his Long Coat Shepherd genes, making him more of an absorbent elegant mop that the typical Shepherd double coated fur more impervious to long rains.
And off we 'll go, down to the farmers fields , where still the slugs remain inside for the day, the large Groundhog community just underground in complex burrowry, tantalizing enough, each day, to the furiously digging dog.
Yesterday it was all for naught, as, when we arrived, so did one farmer. So, not off leash run run and thundering about with those big-boy muscles ; but rather a frustratingly sedate on leash stroll, making the best of things .
The farmer ( and we 're thinking male, but lest we forget, they come in two sexes, and multiple other colors and sizes) was driving their truck over their cabbage patch ( and now we confer amongst ourselves, as to why Kale and Spinach, let's say, just are there, but Cabbages have Patches?) .
But no matter , there they were, thoughtfully perusing the patch I walk by each day, selecting a cabbage or two on this dark winters day , then driving a few yards further, possibly because they caught sight of a better one?
As I stand with Dante, wondering if they have a cold back shed to put them in, cold and dry and dark , for pulling those nutritious rounds of soft enveloped leaves out, hefting the head , and bringing them into a warm kitchen to steam for a meal .
So today , there will be no one there , the homeless person in their van long gone , and the hunter with their lab tired of the hunting game , after wandering around this and the arroyo and God knows what other places, sometimes errantly BAM BAMING their gun fifteen times, so I wonder what on earth kind of hunting they may be up to. Or if instead , they are some kind of kid/adult, despite being around my own age, just glancing life- stealing bullets off any old thing they choose.
Today in the pouring rain I will be alone, smiling , soaking up the quiet and the pattering of the rainfall , the newly born Winter and the dreams and gifts of one hard dirt road and foggy tree limbs, poetic in the sheer morning light.
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