Cloud cover

Welcome. Early this morning, our dog walk took place in what may as well have been the dark of the moon. What minimal light there could  have been was blocked by cloud cover. As day's light, not really sun light, slowly emerged from the east, it revealed a fog that could have crept in on kitten's paws, not as thick or heavy as Sandburg's that crept in on cat's feet. The past days' rain showers have quieted the woods. It could have been a day for still hunting, if that's what appeals to you. We've once again settled for a quiet day, although yesterday we went into the cities to look at fireplace inserts. The old firebox, metal lined and warped, isn't safe anymore. We're looking to get it replaced or, perhaps, get a new insert installed. I keep telling myself that I'm having fun trying to get it all sorted out. I keep not believing myself. Then, as I was searching on line for noncombustible mantle shelves, the better half told me to come and see all the turkeys in the back yard. There were actually two or three more off to the left and right of this part of the flock.

wet day turkeys               © harrington

This may be a good Winter to start practicing my calling again, and see about getting a permit come Spring. Even though I've never yet managed to be successful, I've usually had fun while turkey hunting, even in a gentle rain. As to gentle rains, Peter Everwine isn't a Minnesotan, but with this poem, I think he could qualify.

Rain

By Peter Everwine

Toward evening, as the light failed

and the pear tree at my window darkened,
I put down my book and stood at the open door,
the first raindrops gusting in the eaves,
a smell of wet clay in the wind.
Sixty years ago, lying beside my father,
half asleep, on a bed of pine boughs as rain
drummed against our tent, I heard
for the first time a loon’s sudden wail
drifting across that remote lake—
a loneliness like no other,
though what I heard as inconsolable
may have been only the sound of something
untamed and nameless
singing itself to the wilderness around it
and to us until we slept. And thinking of my father
and of good companions gone
into oblivion, I heard the steady sound of rain
and the soft lapping of water, and did not know
whether it was grief or joy or something other
that surged against my heart
and held me listening there so long and late.

Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.