Hear that? It’s not raining anymore, my friend, that’s sleet. Things are starting to shift a little out there.
Not just with the weather I mean. There are some cracks in the faultline, I think. The land is soon going to follow suit.
Not sure if you’ve noticed, but around here, daytime hours are heron hours. You’ll see them everywhere, from just outside the water treatment plant to lonely perches hanging over the bay. It’s not just a thing in the postage stamp paintings—they really do like their picturesque, solitary roosts. My favorite place to look for them is just down from here, in the culvert beneath the only road to this development. You can take your time down there. The herons certainly do.
After sunset, though, the herons find their rest while the foxes walk the moonlight.
Stand in the forest and you’ll hear them talking to one another. And they’ll be more than aware of what you’re up to, let me tell you. During my midnight walks into the woods, they know exactly where and what I am.
Their talk changes during this time of year. Raspy barks give way to wails and shrieks not unlike the sound of tortured ghosts. But that’s just their strange courtship. It starts around January, once heron time and fox time start to tilt back into a balance.
And did I tell you what my rabbit did last week? Something she’s never done before. She jumped up, onto the couch where I was lying and started licking my face. It felt like a sopping wet Q-tip swabbing my eyebrows. They only do that when they feel they properly belong somewhere. I’m glad she feels that way. I’m starting to feel the same.
Not in terms of where we live. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a wonderful place, but I don’t understand it in the way I do my home area. I mean more in terms of what I’m doing. No judgment on others currently pursuing it, but for me, I don’t think that publication is today’s missing link. I can’t see how my name in a literary press contributes to much of anything outside my own credentials and sense of ego. Far better we share stories, whatever that might mean. Less clack-clack and fewer email notifications, more human voices.
Speaking of, I met up with a storytelling group this past Saturday. They aren’t exactly local—they’re about three counties over—but they had no problems accommodating a newcomer. I was far and away the youngest person there. Most of them weren’t guys, either, they were grandmothers. And let me tell you, friends, they brought it. Expert tellers, each in their own right. They introduced me to headless samurai, tree-hollow marriages, chains of truth and as a special guest, they brought in Childe Roland himself. You don’t have to be some ollamh or Scandinavian prince to participate, either; they don’t even charge admission for this.
The next meetup is in a month. I’m told there will be cookies. The cookies I’ll try, but I’ll gorge myself on the stories.
