
Change of weather, change of place, change of time
The stars are stretching over me, Orion to my left, the Milky Way like confectioner’s sugar badly wiped on a dark counter. Ready to stick on my hands. The pottery shard of the moon, a little crescent moon, is bright behind me and the cabin. The owl is quiet. The coyotes are quiet. Annie is quiet. She slid out the cabin door and is, perhaps, looking for a chipmunk to play with. Judge is playing with his ball, pushing it around till the kibble comes out.
The quiet, the moon, the warmth, the light of stars in the sky, the dark of everything else, the day ahead, the night behind. The moment in suspension. The fact is, it is time to move back to Forestville and the work. But here, cool bedroom under the trees, air flowing over the pond and through the windows, silence of cars and distance of neighbors, here, heat is luscious. Oh, the meeting at church yesterday, the noble women who came out in the heat to sit in the heat to plan and study and pray. Women with sweat on their faces and limp hair on their heads. Fans above. Fans to the right of us. Fans to the left of us. Fans in our hands. Wonderful women who could think about turning ovens on high. Rolling out dough. Pulling out hot and bubbly pies. To talk and plan about grape pies in the heat of an old church hall.
The heat of the pond reached down a foot yesterday, before the icy spring water had its temperature way with me. The heat of the air made that cold welcome. Drifting, splashing, talking. I thought last week held the last swim and so I swam with all the nostalgia of the summer rippling around me. Yesterday was a bonus swim. Today will be another. A no regrets swim. A no nostalgia swim. Already did that. I even enjoyed losing at cribbage. Twice. Once skunked, once in the stink hole. (These are official cribbage terms that codify ignominious defeat.)
Just joy today. Joy of a grey blue sky revealing its clouds in the early light. The joy of coffee. Joy of outside, no bugs, no blankets. A single crow in the distance. The faintest whiff of old campfire, that bit of acrid aroma. Daily life begins. More crows. Sounds of cars, planes, in the distance.
Dawn is pinking its way through the trees in the east. The goldenrod is shining on the bank of the pond. Today will be cooler, my friend on the hill says. A day for doing things, I suppose. Moving more things back to Forestville. No reason for goodbyes. We are here. We are there. We can supper here. We can supper there. Life is good here. Life is good there.
Wait! It is raining! Bring in the wet suits! Not rain!