Dreaming of a Wet Christmas
I always seem to settle into a semi-hibernation when I'm here in the winter. I don't know whether it's the quality of the light, the damp chill, or the rain. This visit, I was doing well in terms of getting up early until today, when I fell back asleep for another two hours after waking.
The sunlight is shining on dripping leaves and moss, a patch of blue sky moving among clouds to let it through. The light is bright and clear, and all the trees in the valley are outlined against the darker ridge in shadow. Birds shake gleaming droplets free when they land upon the smaller branches, their whirring wings lit up by the light behind.
Moisture is a fact of life here, especially in the winter, so one lives one's life under its cloud, setting one's rhythms to the beat of the falling rain. One accumulates layers of fleece and microfiber and wool like a tree growing moss; one concentrates more on staying warm, than staying dry.
The light has broken through again, its clarity and strength catching the eye in the way a hawk's scream in the early morning hush startles the ear. The clouds drift, the clarion light fades into soft echoes, the glitter of water on yellow-grey lichen dulls into a subtle gleam. On the branch of an oak, a chickadee scolds.
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