When you open the door

(sweater pulled tight)

it's the sound that greets your senses:

red-shouldered blackbirds

(two thousand strong)

A mob that needs no encouragement to fill the air with a cacophony of song, no two birds holding the same key, no two birds singing the same note

SPLISH, WHOOSH, DRIP DRIP DRIP

From there, it is the breaking dawn and first heat of day playing on ear lobes

The slow ignition of sunlight on Cottonwoods and the chartreuse glow of Don Redwoods

The breeze low and brisk, the cattails humming a threshing tune

Your shoulders stretch and warm, pulling, releasing

SPLISH, WHOOSH, DRIP DRIP DRIP

Too late for blackberries

(shriveled and dry)

Too early for elder berries

(although I did try)

So I set into a rhythm of nourishment through knowledge

Examining the handiwork of beavers

(toothy-work? mouthy-work?)

And the clever nests of swallows

SPLISH, WHOOSH, DRIP DRIP DRIP

Soon the river bends, flows, snaps, flashes

Phoebes take advantage of solitary snags to sing their heart-song

(an ocean-sized soul in a two-pound package)

Egrets turn a wary eye

(knobby knees and delicate throats)

Canada Geese bumble and preen while the natives roll their eyes.

And I

well

I am one of the natives.

I've sunk my feet into these muddy banks

Trailed fingers through the algean waters

I know these scents like I know my skin

I've called this place home

And I mean it still.

SPLISH, WHOOSH, DRIP DRIP DRIP

SPLISH, WHOOSH, DRIP DRIP DRIP

SPLISH

WHOOSH

DRIP

DRIP

DRIP

I've been busy...

Real Busy.

Watching sunsets busy.

Smelling the grapes and red earth and dusty oak leaves busy.

I've been a hunter-gatherer.

Striding out into the fields [of the back yard]

Colander held steady

Nimble fingers (one for the bucket, two for my face)

I've listen for prey.

And had the tables turned

(a camera lens licked to holy demise by a solid cement brick of puppy love)

I've held long clucks with the ladies of the green.

(they think little of my conversational skill, caring only for corn and strawberry handouts as well as the long ties on my leather sandals)

I've felt the heat of a valley's day on my rooftop, the flash and glare light in my windows.

I've been busy being quiet, watching, waiting for that perfect glow to illuminate the sky just before the fields are plunged into darkness.

And in all my spare time, I've managed to whip a little something up. I laid down my paint brushes and unplugged my sewing machine to spend a week with my family, which roughly translates to "let's play art" which roughly translates to "let's play silversmith" (which in reality was the blind leading the blind with torches and molten silver - AS IN SWEET JESUS THAT WAS AMAZINGLY FUN WHEN I WASN'T CURSING MY LACK OF KNOWLEDGE).

Cherrio sweet friendlies, for the todo list is long and I've vino to fetch!

Today Looks Like:

Sleeping late, a crumpled mess of sheets manifesting dreams the night before

Jersey skirt, teal shirt, navy leg warmers pulled high, one leather cuff

A sky in bands of gray, pockets of light spilling through the tease of blue behind

One cappuccino, two bags of beans to go

Dishes in the sink

Furry puffs of little boys, looking for laps to commandeer

The scent of rosemary crushed on my fingertips

And cold pizza, straight from the box

The sounds of city life about another day

Watching the birch sway

Hearing the cherry blossoms rustle

Quietly

Thinking

Planing

Sewing

Drawing

Breathing

Beating

Happy Studio Day to you too!

Double Cappuccino + Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers = A very happy studio day indeed!

Cheerio Dollfaces!

Rain is truly the most cathartic element for me. The scent is soul-balm, the droplets on my skin the purest baptism, the sound more honest than any word I've ever heard. I know no better type of rejuvenation that to set out walking, feel the rhythm of the earth reverberating through my legs, to breath in time with the trees, to leave my heaviness with the ferns, to reawaken my curiosity by laughing with the sparrows.

*****

I wonder

Has there been some small cosmic shift, and the tide is finally receding? This is nothing the naked eye can observe just yet, but requires a thorough observation preformed in utter solitude broken only by my own inhalations.

*****

I watch the drops end their heavenly descent and spread into concentric rings on the earth's crust.

I wonder

Is this the birth-stage in the ever reincarnate life of hydrogen-dioxide? If I stand in it, turn my face up, let that perfect new-formed life roll down my skin, will I absorb that rebirth, that fresh beginning, osmosically?

*****

I hold my arm out, until the muscles along my shoulder twitch and shake. The edges of my sleeve, pushed high, darkens with saturation as I break the first rule of wilderness survival and give into the rain. I watch the droplets gather into generous pools between the hard tendons of my knuckles. I watch the water rush deep rivers along the story-telling lines of my palm. I watch my dry, tired skin drink deep; small wrinkles filling up, taunt lines plumping, a glow spreading from fingertip to fingertip, spilling into the broad heel of my hand, bottlenecking into my wrist, flowing up my arm ever heart-ward.