I have been sitting on the porch all evening, alternately listening to a book on my kindle, knitting, bird watching, reading old science magazines, daydreaming, or just gazing out over the road noticing how the trees are loosing their red and gold leaves and the hillside across the way is becoming more visible each day. The sun has set, daylight is fading quietly, darkness is slowly creeping down the hill around the house, silently seeping into the sir and sky. They twilight is cool and stills as the birds and chipmunks retire to their nests. The trees become dark silhouettes against the purpling sky, the first brightest stars appear as weak glimmers, gaining in brightness as the sky coalesces into darkness. The porch has drifted into dark shadow, soft caress of approaching night against my skin. A bird calls out, a single loud piercing short cry splits the silence for just a moment. It leaves its perch and flies into the darkness. I do not want to go inside. I would like to stay here and become this soft smooth night, be the blanket of calmness that brings slumber and dreams, swirl and twirl dancing with twinkling starlight, bathe in the moonlight, loving life and living in my misty dreams of infinite universe.
Back to see the doctor… Bronchitis again… Another antibiotic… Yuck…
Later, sitting (dozing I the rocker) on the porch watching birds on the feeder, and the grey and white puffy clouds grow and gather, enjoying the peace and quiet of an afternoon in the hollow. Suddenly, all the birds explode away from the feeder and off the ground completely disappearing in a furious flurry of feathers and alarm calls. A much larger bird silently swoops down in dangerous blur of brown and white. It narrowly misses the feeder, then swing up on fabulous strong wings to land with empty talons on a nearby tree branch. It is small for a hawk, graceful and elegant, speckled brown on its white chest, and dark bands on its tail. It only pauses for the briefest moment before its majestic wings open again and it smoothly glides out of sight into the forest on the hillside behind our house. Later I looked it up in our Peterson’s Bird Guide book. It was either a Cooper’s Hawk or a Sharp-Shinned Hawk. Although I got a good look at it, I wasn’t concentrating on the subtle distinguishing characteristics needed to tell them apart, and the both live here. So, I get to keep my marvelous hawk encounter of the mysterious kind!
Its raining, again. I sit in a rocking chair on the porch with a light jacket on and watch the gentle curtain of water drops fall to earth. The sky is low and gloomy, the air damp and cool. This summer has been wet and cold. We get a warm day or two now and then, but then the weather turns chilly and wet again. It has been great for the water level in the river, but hard on those of us worship hot warm summer days and warm summer evenings in the twilight. As I sit rocking on the porch, eyes closed, listening to the rain dripping off the roof and drizzling from the sky, I fantasize about warm summer rains I have known. The kind of rain where the oppressive humidity breaks as the sky opens up, pouring giant warm rain drops in a cascading deluge, the kind of rain you can dance around in with soggy joyful abandon. I open my eyes and gaze out at the sodden dripping dark green trees, inwardly laugh at myself as I shiver, so I get up, go inside , and snuggle with some cats.