Sunday

Filigreed Branch of a Near Maple



The valley is covered in fog this morning.  Filigreed branches of a near maple drip and shimmer against the backdrop of an eighteenth century Chinese landscape come to life.  In this landscape I am without need.  All I desire is at hand.  In this landscape the brunt of the modern world has softened, recessed and by vagueness disappeared and become disempowered.

Crows call from the all but invisible eastern hillside forest and are answered from the equally obscured western.  Wild turkeys swathed in matte black amble winter's muted green and golden grass of the lower meadow.

And however soft the day may be, it has not denied the liveliness of a squirrel's frisking chase from oak to oak in the valley's center.   I have not seen them but I imagine both rabbit and fieldmouse to also be out and about.  The hawk's sharp eye diminished is surely an advantage not to be missed.

The fog has graciously provided cover for those of us who wish to ramble unattended ,unobserved through  earth's beauty today.  Eighteenth century Chinese aesthetics appear to have but one human taker in this valley this morning.  How glad I am to be she.