4.22.15 A small vibrant morning song

4.22.15 The metaphor sank into me as we laughed, running back and forth, playing in a morning cloud

 

I remember when my  firstborn was three, and we’d been driving down a road in early morning, toward the house in Montague Center.

 I passed by a fog filled field, pulled the car over, unbuckled him from his car seat, and out we ran, into that impenetrable fog. 

You could not see into it, and once you were far into the field, you could no longer see the road or car. 

The metaphor sank into me, as we laughed, running back and forth, amazed, playing in a morning cloud.

4.21.15 It seems that in this small corner of the world, all is well

An hour before sunset, Dante and I climb in the car, drive down the mountain to gaze at the Eagle Sanctuary, then go the long way around to the dirt road by the river, avoiding the deep waters of the flooded entrance.

                I've never been around this way, and we pass by old and new homes designed to adapt to the seasonal flooding of the Connecticut, as the lives of these people and livestock thrive in the rich soil, up next to the old river.  

                 Overhead, an enormous Red Tail Hawk, irritated by our arrival, takes off from a low branch, flying with their 14 or 15 inch wingspan, as their smaller male mate follows their lead, up to higher branches beyond.  The old farmer-planted Willows shine with long tendrils of light green leaves, swaying in the evening wind.

                A flock of Mallards flutters across the still empty fields, as a farmer on an impressive tractor tills the soil, rich and dark brown, filled with ages of silk from the river nearby. 

               Dante splashes and plays in the swirling flood water's covering the crook of the dirt road, as the sun slowly sets, wandering behind spectacular clouds, throwing light across the vast fields.

Puddles along the road mirror the cloud filled sky. It’s 62 degrees, nearing 7 pm, and it seems that in this small corner of the world, all is well.