Photo by Brocken Inaglory
Colder out there today. Winter in western Oregon. The light becomes lyrical. I go out to empty the woodstove ashes in the compost and there’s dew illuminating every strand, the entire pattern of a few spider webs between the chicken wire fence and the cedar boughs of an old holiday wreath we hung on the fence post last year. Things sparkly, bright, pretty. And I can see mist (the fog I guess) lifting away from a tree trunk where the warm rays of sunlight hit the lichen that year-round covers the bark. If I didn’t need to eat lunch and feel the pressure of a few shoulds — I should rake more leaves, should go for a power walk — then maybe I’d let myself enjoy the poetry of this moment. Or maybe this is enjoyment, typing these words as a too-green wedge of Douglas fir makes popping sounds from the woodstove, like static on a worn LP. Even a few birds are back at the feeder. What a little sunshine will do.