6/10/15 Living our lives, knowing that who we are makes a difference.

6.11.15 It swept in with its dark purple skies and roiling clouds

What a thrashing, tree-limb crashing, cleansing, deep watering, road-obscuring downpour that was. Lucky we get this gift of water.

It swept in with its dark purple skies and roiling clouds, and passed through, leaving us with residual small rivers racing down every path now, as Dante and I walk along the farm fields.

Somehow all the small tufts of baby Killdeer, each bundle with their parents, are toddling about, and not blown away.

6.9.15 So many stories we persist in telling ourselves

So many stories we persist in telling ourselves

over and over again

keeping alive that which we dread most

Pressing away from us the actuality

that holds depth, and promise

6.9.15 The blossoming of the forest

The blossoming of the forest is happening, as each plant takes its turn coming to fruition. As the canopy thickens with bright green leaf and needle. As bears wander unobtrusively, alone or with their small young, marking boulders and rotten trees with their territory. 

As forest creatures and birds call to one another, providing messages, warnings, updates, invitations. 

The stream in springtime is clear and full, the trampled places where wild ones slept last night visible. Where they relieved themselves when they woke leaving a scent for the young Shepherd to consider. 

       

In the early morning light, we leave the dark rich forest, and quietly walk up the steep road that skirts the small range. The sky is overcast, bits of welcome rain pattering down through the layers of branches. 

We come to our driveway, turn in, and the cacophony 

of chipmunk communiqués turns riot, as the young pup presses his nose down one chipmunk hole after another, breathing deeply, altering his sense of his own life with the presence of these unseen others.