January 21, 2025

Shot a lot in black and white today.



Trying to decide if these two pictures are of the same beaver dam from 2 different angles. But they are not.  I just realized that the summer one is off Butterfield Rd. in Marlboro, Vt.  I sent that photo to Jason in June when he was first released from the hospital.  It was striking how summery it was and how wintery today was.




I made it to the Y this morning and was very glad I did, but I came home soon after to work on my project.  Decided it was important to go check in on the rookery.  It's been several days.   It is snow covered and lovely in its own right, but I miss the birds.  It was too early in the afternoon to see any.
I went on up and around to the beaver dam.  There was very little happening and shooting in black and white was a little more interesting than grey winter day.  It was 16 degrees on the hill at 1:30 this afternoon.  



Something was sliding down the little waterfall, my new most photographed space.  It look like whatever did had fun on their own personal water slide.


 What do you think made these tracks?  They go straight up the maple tree.  I think they were not there when I left for the Y.  I don't know.  Lots of wildlife down here in the valley this winter. 







I have 3 stories emerging in my brain while I'm trying to build this big display.   I won't actually try to write them until after the LAVA birthday party.    But I did do my experimental poem and I will post it.  Have your read any Jericho Brown?  Check him out.  I was sent a video of him explaining his poem format, The Duplex.  Anyway, here is my first attempt.











Agile:

 

My father was soft; he had agile hands.

Are you bored with me while I still marvel at how brown your eyes are?

 

Are you bored with me while I still marvel at how your eyes speak?

Low levels of depression are just off my right shoulder.

 

Low levels of depression peek over my right shoulder.

Because he is a daily piece of a sad-full meditation woven with thin silk thread in my life’s tapestry. 

 

He is a daily piece of a sad-full meditation woven with thin silk thread 

Words like globs of clay drop from my aching brain.

 

Words like globs of clay drop from my aching brain.

 Open my edges to this book.

 

Open my raw edges to this long book.

My father was soft; he had agile hands.

 

 

 

 


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