The park’s dull, gray, curving paths glistened a deep black, speckled with flecks of silver and blue—liquid mirrors of daylight and winter sky. A manmade canvas doused with a New Year’s first rain.
A 30-minute walk in balmy air. A renewed love affair. One I have each year with winter. The only season that consistently invokes poetry from within me.
The black feathered gangsta Turkey Vultures prowled about their prey. They posed calmly, darting their eyes from prey to me, as I dared to inspect their find. Too far gone was it for me to name its former being.
Looking up. Bare limbs stretching, sparse, dead leaves dangling. Contrast of white, gray, and swaths of blue. Cloudscapes mocking hillsides. The real versions crowded with stick-skinny trees patiently waiting this mark of time.
Orange-red fungi rooted on large, fallen logs; seed pods curled shut, others overstuffed with peeping, fuzzy fairy-like contents; rippling, clear creeks becoming rivers, rushing somewhere.
The message through eye to soul-spirit, a metaphor to this human life:
Always discover the joy, be it a nearly hidden sliver or an overflowing vessel. It is there. Always.
In dormancy, courage brews, weathering what life throws one’s way.
It is choice how we face, stand, and bear; or crack, fold, and fall.
If it is the later, then there, too, is a lesson.
Nature’s winter is full of fallen glory dissolving into the rot of mulch, then rich black soil of fertile earth back again, ready for birth.
In another week, I’m due an iPhone upgrade. Yippee! Until then, it is frequently full and unable to take additional pictures. These snaps, from my patio garden, were the last I was able to capture just before leaving for our walk. Afterward, Grace sat patiently while I pecked this post into my phone. My first microblog ever.