Sketchbook Writings
UmberDove
~ From my sketchbook writings, December 10th ~
The fog makes times stand still. There is no back, no forward, there is hardly even up or down. I no longer remember when I woke or when I should bed. There is only now and the ticking of dew rolling down curls.
Three bald eagles in two days. This land has swallowed me in exchange for raptors. I puff along like a bright red steam engine, collecting speed, collecting shapes, lines, curves, textures, like a greedy architect. I'll use some later, and what ever else is left rattling in my mind and [too shallow] pockets will be tipped out of those checkered panes and given to the ravens. They'll take it all. They always do.
Up on the ridge the trees, not expecting company through the long winter, have slipped out of their summer finery and grown shaggy green coats. We're all a little rough around the edges but this is how I know we're old friends. There is no need for pretense here, just a swinging gait, green scent of rot, and mud caked on boots.
* * *
I spent yesterday on Rattlesnake Ridge. Days like that give me few words, halting descriptions, like trying to explain the scent of freshly baked bread to a newborn. So I use my hands to tell the story. And as ever, they are far more eloquent than my tongue.
Three bald eagles in two days. This land has swallowed me in exchange for raptors. I puff along like a bright red steam engine, collecting speed, collecting shapes, lines, curves, textures, like a greedy architect. I'll use some later, and what ever else is left rattling in my mind and [too shallow] pockets will be tipped out of those checkered panes and given to the ravens. They'll take it all. They always do.
Up on the ridge the trees, not expecting company through the long winter, have slipped out of their summer finery and grown shaggy green coats. We're all a little rough around the edges but this is how I know we're old friends. There is no need for pretense here, just a swinging gait, green scent of rot, and mud caked on boots.
* * *
I spent yesterday on Rattlesnake Ridge. Days like that give me few words, halting descriptions, like trying to explain the scent of freshly baked bread to a newborn. So I use my hands to tell the story. And as ever, they are far more eloquent than my tongue.
(sterling silver and a small pebble plucked from the Eel River in Northern California)
* * *
Stay warm friends; I'm off to pick up a hot bowl of soup and run to the post; calendars are fluttering to homes across the globe and I can not thank you enough!