They left when sheets of polypropelene rolled out across the once grassy track field. Gone, too, the hiss and rainbow arc of water from sprinklers. The geese altered their Rio Grande River migration path. Then one day returned. Honking. Confused. Hovering angry above the plastic sheen.
The drone of tires on pavement, the muffled bark of a dog, and the crunch of dead grass beneath my sneakers float in the motionless, crisp air. The quaking aspens have lost their noisemakers, standing silent and bare.
The warming air after yesterday’s snow carries the aroma of sidewalk salt and falling sky. My lungs fill with moist air—a soothing cool. The sidewalks are slushy. A good opportunity for a fall, I think. I always anticipate disaster. The tread on my walking shoes won’t hold. Under the slush, ice waits to unbalance me.
Sitting on the front porch. So much man-noise. Heavy machinery backing up, saws buzzing, bikes blasting. Women here are quieter. (Oklahoma ranks first in the nation for incarcerated women and second for women murdered by men.) Maybe it's better in the backyard. But this ain't no Lake Isle of Innisfree.
My ears penetrate the silence, revealing the distant knocking of a woodpecker, the chirps of invisible wintering birds and the chitter of a squirrel. Blue-fingered tentacles of cold air grasp at my nose. They wend their way around my knees, climbing up under my coat and seeping into my thighs.
Looking up from the screen in my office, I become aware of the rhythmic chop, chop on the wooden cutting board in the kitchen. My husband is making dinner. On winter nights we dine by the fire, from trays on our laps. If the meal requires a knife and fork, we eat at the dining room table, still in sight of the fire. In fine weather, we eat outside at the picnic table on our deck, warmed by the lowering sun. We live in the woods. Our summer meals are accompanied by the chatter of squirrels, a chorus of songbirds, the discordant cawing of crows, the sound of a guitar drifting towards us from our neighbour’s open window.
Cold air stings my face and my fingers and my legs below the bottom of my coat. A breeze blows and the branches on the bare winter trees move slightly. A group of pigeons flying in the distance – one direction, then another.
In my mind, a scene appears. I am on a chair lift going up the mountain, light snowflakes falling and everything around is white and fluffy looking except for the trees, which are dark and sprinkled with white powder. In this vision, I am alone, other than a few snowy looking figures off in the distance. Not sure what is at the top or what I will be facing when skiing down. The quiet is comforting.
The sky is gray with tiny bits of blue trying to peek through. I don’t feel scared, I’m just taking it all in.
They left when sheets of polypropelene rolled out across the once grassy track field. Gone, too, the hiss and rainbow arc of water from sprinklers. The geese altered their Rio Grande River migration path. Then one day returned. Honking. Confused. Hovering angry above the plastic sheen.
The drone of tires on pavement, the muffled bark of a dog, and the crunch of dead grass beneath my sneakers float in the motionless, crisp air. The quaking aspens have lost their noisemakers, standing silent and bare.
The warming air after yesterday’s snow carries the aroma of sidewalk salt and falling sky. My lungs fill with moist air—a soothing cool. The sidewalks are slushy. A good opportunity for a fall, I think. I always anticipate disaster. The tread on my walking shoes won’t hold. Under the slush, ice waits to unbalance me.
Sitting on the front porch. So much man-noise. Heavy machinery backing up, saws buzzing, bikes blasting. Women here are quieter. (Oklahoma ranks first in the nation for incarcerated women and second for women murdered by men.) Maybe it's better in the backyard. But this ain't no Lake Isle of Innisfree.
that parenthetical comment!!
My ears penetrate the silence, revealing the distant knocking of a woodpecker, the chirps of invisible wintering birds and the chitter of a squirrel. Blue-fingered tentacles of cold air grasp at my nose. They wend their way around my knees, climbing up under my coat and seeping into my thighs.
Dinner Sounds
Looking up from the screen in my office, I become aware of the rhythmic chop, chop on the wooden cutting board in the kitchen. My husband is making dinner. On winter nights we dine by the fire, from trays on our laps. If the meal requires a knife and fork, we eat at the dining room table, still in sight of the fire. In fine weather, we eat outside at the picnic table on our deck, warmed by the lowering sun. We live in the woods. Our summer meals are accompanied by the chatter of squirrels, a chorus of songbirds, the discordant cawing of crows, the sound of a guitar drifting towards us from our neighbour’s open window.
Cold air stings my face and my fingers and my legs below the bottom of my coat. A breeze blows and the branches on the bare winter trees move slightly. A group of pigeons flying in the distance – one direction, then another.
In my mind, a scene appears. I am on a chair lift going up the mountain, light snowflakes falling and everything around is white and fluffy looking except for the trees, which are dark and sprinkled with white powder. In this vision, I am alone, other than a few snowy looking figures off in the distance. Not sure what is at the top or what I will be facing when skiing down. The quiet is comforting.
The sky is gray with tiny bits of blue trying to peek through. I don’t feel scared, I’m just taking it all in.