It’s the in-between moments that seem to yield the biggest beauties of life.
I am leaving the parking lot after morning walk and a fellow lady of the lake has a surprise for me. She hands it to me with an air of secret glee. Holly — but the kind with red berries. Hard to find. She searched for it in the woods and now, thanks to her, some boughs of it are mine.
Another friend hands me mistletoe. In the country its all about these nature gifts, a joyful-conspiracy face as the symbols of winter are exchanged.
T, channelling ants and chipmunks, has collected all the walnuts fallen after summer’s breeze came to end; he likes to hoard them but I know we can’t possibly eat the lot of them, so I sneak them out, here and there; some undercover back-alley operation. Same with the dried apples. He does all the work and I give it away. It’s a strange sort of sway.
One day later I write a poem on whim, love from friends types in, I go out to prepare the woodshed for the delivery of four stère dry oak. I stop mid-step, seeing the blue plastic cover stretched over the octagonal pool has a puddle from last night’s storm in it, I try to shake it off to no avail. I find a screwdriver, poke holes in the plastic and listen to the water drain down to to the jewelled wintering swamp inside.
Then I stand and scan the horizon, which draws near in a haze of evening abalone. I hear the wind-chime, the late-fall wind lifts my hair, and suddenly there, a great hawk, soaring soaring above the tree, then climbing the updraft over the field in the valley. Its underwings lit silver white like the hidden moon. I watch it so hard it disappears, but here on the page it returns.
Its wingspan a heart-memory across vast sky of mind, forever burned.
Nadine inhales & exhales words & images from current vantage point in Diagonale du Vide, France. Thank you for reading. ❤︎