Solstice sunrise?

Happy Winter Solstice! (I think that's an appropriate greeting.) As near as I can tell, we Minnesotans are suffering overcast conditions as they did at Stonehenge, but our celebrations are likely to be quite tame compared to the festivities our cousins across the pond engaged in. If our local weather were more cooperative, I might have been able to grab a solstice shot something like this, minus the leaves of course. Maybe next year?

local sunrise (not solstice)     © harrington

Is it just me or do you detect a slight similarity in appearance between Merlin and a certain jolly old elf who's going to be visiting in just a few days? I doubt I could get behind Santa with a sword. That's carrying the naughty and nice thing too far, but since I've never heard of Santa arriving at Stonehenge, I don't think we have to worry. Santa comes at night after we're all asleep and the celebration at Stonehenge is during the day when we're awake (although some of the folks at the Stonehenge celebration may make us think we're dreaming). If you use your imagination a little, you might be able to picture a sunrise in this photo, which is about what it looks like around here today.

winter morning             © harrington

I hope you're grateful for the beauty provided for free in our Minnesota. Think about what your taxes might be like if it weren't for the free services Mother Nature gives us. Aren't clean air and clean water among the best presents ever? Where would we be without them? One of my Christmas wishes is for fewer children who "forget everything." I'm trying to figure out how to go back and remember.

That Child

By David Wagoner 

That child was dangerous. That just-born

    Newly washed and silent baby

         Wrapped in deerskin and held warm

Against the side of its mother could understand

    The language of birds and animals

         Even when asleep. It knew why Bluejay

Was scolding the bushes, what Hawk was explaining

   To the wind on the cliffside, what Bittern had found out

         While standing alone in marsh grass. It knew

What the screams of Fox and the whistling of Otter

    Were telling the forest. That child knew

         The language of Fire

As it gnawed at sticks like Beaver

    And what Water said all day and all night

         At the creek's mouth. As its small fingers

Closed around Stone, it held what Stone was saying.

    It knew what Bear Mother whispered to herself

         Under the snow. It could not tell

Anyone what it knew. It would laugh

    Or cry out or startle or suddenly stare

         At nothing, but had no way

To repeat what it was hearing, what it wanted most

    Not to remember. It had no way to know

         Why it would fall under a spell

And lie still as if not breathing,

    Having grown afraid

         Of what it could understand. That child would learn

To sit and crawl and stand and begin

    Putting one foot forward and following it

         With the other, would learn to put one word

It could barely remember slightly ahead

    Of the other and then walk and speak

         And finally run and chatter,

And all the Tillamook would know that child

    Had forgotten everything and at last could listen

         Only to people and was safe now.

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