After the picnic at Trail Bay, my grandsons went to the edge of the water to skip flat rocks. In the distance, a tug pulling a barge. A few ducks. I forgot I was cold.
There are no salmonberry blossoms yet. Two weeks late. But Pacific willows alight with their soft flowers, the silvery pussies, a few ravens high on the thermals as we walked to collect a single rib from the elk skeleton polished off by wolves, and Venus in the western sky at dusk, bright as a tiny lantern.
The moon so bright that it’s as though we sleep with the lights on. There are lots of tears with small boys visiting. A bow breaks, the walls of the house of split cedar logs collapse.
When shall we lean in the empty window,
Together in brightness, and tears dried up? (Du Fu)
Prawns and chorizo thawing, swimming scallops (also called singing scallops) in the fridge, Bomba rice, and saffron from Persia. Tonight we’ll feast on paella and a salad of oranges flavoured with tiny leaves of mint just emerging from their winter sleep.
Last night I dreamed I’d forgotten the flowers I promised to bring to Angelica and Karna’s wedding in August. On a weathered cabin wall, I found moss roses blooming and hurried to cut enough of them. They fell apart in my hands.
2 thoughts on “quotidian”
You say the salmonberry blossoms are two weeks late. Made me wonder what, with climate change, it means for nature to be late.
I wonder if plants will adjust to a growing season that is different in so many ways –later, hotter (and how will this affect pollination?), drier?