Thursday, September 23, 2010


Monday, September 20, 2010

glory o the morn

There's a hearty vine taking over the back patio.
I'd not expected it to make it through our dry and supremely hot summer. Though it has, despite many occasions of near-dead wilted leaves.

One morning, after a particularly difficult number-crunching, hair-pulling, over-all frustrating all-nighter, I ventured into the cool moist dawn. The sun barely having broken the horizon. Somewhat muffled, the waking bird songs and distant highway sounds. Fresh.

I rounded the corner, past the porch post and mass of heart-shaped vine leaves, vine tendrils snagging in my hair...

Unfocused, bleary-eye, I caught shocks of blue in my periphery.

Most unexpectedly, the vine had not only survived, but it celebrated with blue morning glories sprinkled throughout its delicate foliage.


Wednesday, September 08, 2010


Enjoying the warmth of a summer day, I sat in one of the plastic lawn chairs whilst the kiddos were at play. Trying to sound nonchalant, maybe even happy, about the coming end of the season, I made playful comments about topics that are now unremembered.

The summer will be missed, in a way. The heat of it, not so much, but the sense of time being a slight slower will be. Once fall arrives, and in not too long a time from now, the days will grow shorter. Time will seem to slip away faster, I think.

But before this, I sat in my chair, somewhat wet from our "last swim of the season" as it were, drying in the rays of the sun. As I often have done, I scanned every green thing in the yard. The green would be gone soon.

I gazed briefly at the sky. A beautiful sky. The blue intensifies, it seems, as the air tends to grow clearer in the cooling wind.

Then, eyes to the children and the grass beneath us, I saw a tiny movement in the corner of my eye. I knew, instantly, I did not want to know what caused it.

I tried to ignore what I thought I saw, because in that split second, I'd realized what sadness was to follow. There in the dirt, amongst a scattering of shriveled fuchsia crepe myrtle flowers and twigs, silently squirmed a wee and recently hatched creature. A baby dove.

Quietly I uttered, "I didn't want to see that. I wished I hadn't just seen that."

But it was seen, and could not be undone.

Quickly, before picking up the sweet creature, the husband and I searched for a nest, hoping there'd be one within reach. There was not.

The nest was to be found, eventually, very high up in the tree. Too high to be reached safely. I cursed the mother dove, who sat statue-like on her nest. Was she unaware her baby was lost? The nest of the dove, nearly any dove, a shabby one indeed.

With a pained heart and misty eyes, I picked up the little grey ball. He made not a sound as he wriggled, soft in my palm.

I fashioned a nest of sorts for him, what comfort I could possible give, and placed him in a vee of the tree. Into the summer night, he faded...

Time, fleeting...