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Category: landscape

Winter Morning

Winter Morning

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Gray, leaden skies today and snow in the forecast. I’m remembering a warmer morning, with open skies and a spectacular sunrise. One I almost missed until I spotted a streak of orange out the front windows and walked out on the deck.

It was the big show that morning, skies streaked orange and gold, clouds purpled at the horizon. Birds were at the feeder, grackles and chickadees, and in the distance the sounds of other birds, crows cawing, the cackle of a pileated woodpecker.

Everything was alive and singing — the birds, the wind stirring the winter brambles, even the sky, changing by the minute, the sun impatient to start the day.

This Other Life

This Other Life

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The flight left at 5:30, which seems insanely early even for an airplane, creature of the sky that it is. But powered by humans, of course, humans who must sleep.

Still, it did leave and it did arrive, and before 9 a.m. I was already where it normally takes me all day to reach by car. And so into my life the gift of time has fallen.

What have I done with it so far?

I’ve written, read and snapped some photos. I’ve looked at snow on mountaintops and marveled at the thin pink line where earth meets sky.

I’ve seen my hometown from the air — there’s Keeneland Race Track on the right.

I’ve slipped quietly into this other life.

Twin Contrails

Twin Contrails

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Gray skies today but last Monday, on a warmish morning (40s instead of teens), I took my cup of tea out on the deck, wrapped up in a blanket and watched the birds at the feeder.

There was a softness to the air, and I could hear the sound of traffic from a busy road miles away. As the day warmed and brightened, I looked to my left. And there, emerging through the trees, twin contrails.

I bet they’re around most every morning. The 7 a.m. flights out of Dulles. I let my eye follow those white streaks as they emerged from behind the trees. I imagined I was aboard one of those jets, looking down at the rolling Virginia countryside, heading west.

Mountain Views

Mountain Views

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This morning is blustery and cold. I look out the French doors into the backyard, with its dusting of snow, its wind-bent boughs.

It’s a familiar view, a treasured view. But for some reason this morning I notice how the bare tree branches across the street come together to resemble a peak. If I didn’t know better, if I looked quickly, I could be staring at a mountain.

So now I’m dreaming of mountains I’ve seen — and the views they’ve given me.

Moon Alone

Moon Alone

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Yesterday’s lunar encounter happened later than Monday’s. I found the orb higher in the heavens, no trees or clouds to hide it.

A thick fog was swirling up from the ground, but it didn’t obscure the sky. So when I went outside after dark, the moon (the “wolf moon” I later learned), was throwing striped shadows across the backyard. There were bars of darkness and light and I stepped through them, like rungs of a ladder lying flat on the ground.

Venus was rumored to be in the neighborhood, but I didn’t see it. Only this moon, alone in a field of black.

Moon through Trees

Moon through Trees

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This week’s warming pattern has brought us back to November: The air is raw but not frigid; the trees are bare but not icy.

We’ve not yet crossed the boundary where a warming trend feels like spring. Instead, it feels like fall with all of winter yet to come.

Last evening, stepping out of the car to get the mail, I paused as I turned when I spotted this moon. It was a Halloween moon that was late to the party. I looked for the witch on her broomstick. I saw instead today’s clouds moving in on a freshening wind, and a blur of light both wan and enigmatic.

Ground Rules

Ground Rules

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Today the ground rules. The
heavens send us rain; the ground gives us ice. We are coated from the ground
up. We are bound to the ground, are creatures of it. From it we come and to it
we return. We look to the heavens but are bound to the earth. 
The
other day I watched a show about bird men, people who bundle up in special
suits with “wings” then jump off cliffs and “fly” down. The most crucial time,
said one of the daredevils, is when you pull the ripcord. Too soon and you miss
the ride. Too late and you die.
To pull the ripcord is to speak the truth — that we
are creatures of earth, not of heaven. It’s to say, with a reluctant dip of the wing, that the ground rules.
Old Guard

Old Guard

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The Bluegrass region of Kentucky is a natural savannah land, and trees here are in short supply. The old oaks, the ones that have been here 100 years or more, are gnarled and magnificent.

They stand sentinel in fields. They rise handily above young maples or pines. 

Because trees are scarce here, I notice them more. To come upon one now is to see what a tree can be.

The Great Pause

The Great Pause

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It’s almost December, trees are bare. Paths that seemed endless in summer green are exposed when winter comes. The community forest is not the leading edge of a wilderness; it is a parcel of land that didn’t perk.

But that’s not all. It is also is a landscape stripped to its essence. I take out my earphones and listen. I can almost hear the silence. The great pause. A momentary intake of breath before the hard exhale.

The fields are
empty; the nights are long. Early winter is peaceful, muted. It asks nothing
of us now.

Sunrise over Metro

Sunrise over Metro

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The built world intrudes but can’t diminish. Sometimes, in fact, it frames and beautifies.

A sunrise ringed by palm fronds would be postcard pretty, but this one is lovely, too.

An ordinary morning, walking through the Metro parking garage, and this is what I see.