Saturday, December 22, 2012
The sky streaked with clouds, some appearing like streaks of smeared paint, others, like the scales of a fish, which always reminds me of my grandmother telling me about Mackerel sky at sunset, foretelling of a change in weather. Her sea fearing family members always keenly aware of what the skies were telling them on the Bay of Fundy where she was raised. I love clouds, the way they move and change shape in the upper winds. The way they remind me of pieces of wool stuck to fencing. Walking in winter around our place is like a story book with the pages being turned with each step. Grass, pale gold bending in the wind, leafless branches shaking in the cold. Mistletoe, in bloom, hung in the trees as if they were put there for decoration. So much to see, so much to soak in, so much to admire and marvel at.
It is a silent sort of morning, sitting next to the wood stove in my rocker, watching the birds outside my windo...