The sun is heading southward. On Monday, late morning, the equinox. It’s in the air, isn’t it? Last night I went out to wish on the first star and it was pretty chilly. I’m still swimming in the lake but John said the other day that he was going to switch to the pool. There were bear prints on the sand the day before yesterday, deep heels, long claws. And yesterday I was swimming towards my favourite overhang of cedars when I realized the branch in the water wasn’t a branch at all but an otter! I quickly got out of its way. On his way to the pool, John saw a coyote on the side of the highway, sniffing the tarmac, wearing its winter coat.
What will fall and winter bring? Travel, for us: we’re going to northeastern Portugal to the Côa Valley. I am thinking of this as a field trip for my ongoing project which is “instead of returning to university to study paleoanthropology”. On my bedside table, a teetering stack of books about paleolithic art, about sites. I go to sleep with images of horses in my head, of bison and aurox. Last fall we went to the Vézère Valley to visit several caves and to learn what we could about them. And for the past year I’ve been thinking about where I’d like to go next. The Côa Valley sites aren’t caves; they’re most engravings, many panels of them along the river, sheltered by rock overhangs. I can’t wait.
This morning I read the most generous review of my novella, The Weight of the Heart. The protagonist of the book travels through the Interior of B.C., in search of locations of inspiration for the subjects of her academic research: most Ethel Wilson and Sheila Watson, though Margaret Peterson makes a small cameo too. Sometimes I’ve thought of that protagonist as a younger version of myself, doing the work I might have done if I’d chosen scholarship rather than writing. And who is this, the older version of myself, immersing herself in monographs about the archaeological context of Côa rock art, distribution patterns, etc.
At our house, the crack of a splitting maul in a big round of fir, flickers in the mountain ash, and not yet, but longed for, farewell song of the geese against the mountain. And pages turning, turning.
On distant shores, autumn sands white
Through linked mountains, evening shines redDiving scales escape frightful waves
Homing wings encounter high windsMallets’ echo – ringing from each house
Axes’ sound – in rhythm, every strokeHoarfrost welcomes Qingnu
Gifting me a quilt, far from South Palace
Note: the lines are Du Fu’s, translated by TIEN TRAN
...Theresa Kishkan 