Winter’s Vice…

Pregnant Skies

The gray sky–low, gravid, and calm–waits to unleash torrents of chilling rain. Despite bundled from such brumal weather, winter chills still slither ‘neath frocks and slickers alike. There is no escape.

And poor Andi. Of late our walks have been truncated due to his sad visage. We only manage to go half way before he looks up at me with pleading eyes, begging to turn around.

I stop, and stoop, and ask, “Well, what do you want to do? Go home?”

And with that one magical word—home—he turns around and leads me back to the comfort of our old house.

Realm of the Sauropods

Here are a few shots from a month earlier, a time when Andi didn’t mind going the entire distance on our daily stroll. You half expect an Apatosaurus to rear its lengthy neck among the reeds and grass, with giant clumps of fauna dripping from its maw.

Redwing Retreat

Our walks are calm and healing. Only a month ago did swarms of redwing blackbirds squawk and twitter amongst these very same reeds, chattering away unseen.

But now, the bitter chill of November lingers, the kind of day that cannot shake  frigid frissons from your shivering body. No matter how many layers, the cold creeps into your bones.

Feline the Warmth

Our cats, not accustomed to sleeping together, have found refuge in each other’s midst, a feline yin and yang. And not to be left out, Andi on occasion will drape a heavy paw over a kitty. (I think Boo simply tolerates this and enjoys the warmth.)

Pooch Love

As for us humans, well, we keep this 213 year old house somewhat warm. With plastic wraps around most windows, and having a forced air system, they manage to keep ol’ man winter at bay. As long as there is oil in the tank we won’t allow hypothermia to visit our dwelling.

Thanksgiving is nigh and come Thursday, long travels await us. Let’s just hope those pregnant clouds disappear without too much of a drenching.

“Can we go home now?”

Happy holiday to all. May warmth, comfort, and calm be yours.

©Paul Grignon-2013, All Rights Reserved.  

Dead Things…

WARNING! GRAPHIC IMAGES BELOW. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED!

Walking Andi down a quiet stretch of back road, near swampland and twisted, broken trees, there is an abundance of squashed fauna embedded in the asphalt.

These poor hapless creatures didn’t stand a chance. A frog weighing in at five ounces faced against a hurtling metal behemoth weighing in at 3,000 pounds, well, there’s no contest, is there?

Frogs, moles, mice, baby birds, chipmunks, turtles, squirrels, opossums, skunks, and other assorted and indeterminate creatures litter the tarmac, their poor torn bodies crushed and fly-ridden, left as mere fodder for maggots and crows.

If they could talk (I mean, in human language, as I’m sure a turtle or chipmunk have their own brand of communication), what would their stories have been?

For instance, coming across a frog that appears relatively intact, I wonder where he was going and where he came from. Was he having an illicit love affair with Ms. Toad down the road? Did his frog wife suspect anything? Was he out carousing with some of his amphibian pals, having a stiff drink of bog juice at the local watering hole? Was he a tad tipsy as he hopped across the road in the wee morning hours?

Just minding his own business, perhaps formulating a few white lies for his patient wife, maybe give her a bouquet of dead flies as an offering and then—BLAM!—a ’67 Nova driven by a slacker mechanic  with his own set of woes runs him over. Not enough to squash him, though. Just enough head trauma to allow him a few more moments of life, for him to wonder just what in hell had hit him.

He lies on the side of the road face up, staring at the swaying branches of pine above, watching as a lone heron flies high overhead, and hears his comrades off in the distance, tuning up their banjos for the evening’s symphony at dusk.

He lies there with his lies, and wonders what will become of him. He knows only a few more breaths are his and that soon he will croak, and croak no more.

Just one tale among many lifeless tails out there dotting the pavement everywhere. We humans think nothing of splattering a frog, or a bug, or even the occasional squirrel. Nope. There’s impact, and then we’re gone. And so are they.

So what the hell am I driving at here, when I’m not driving along back country roads? It’s just a simple message, really; to pay more attention to what may be out there ahead of you, hopping or skipping or jumping or slithering or leaping or walking across the road. Try to make the effort to save a turtle or a blind hairless mole rat that may be dawdling across your path.

Hey, they all have stories and lives and loved ones waiting for them at home. Just like us. So have a little more respect for the fauna that may just scoot in front of you.

(And Buddha forbid those who nail a black cat crossing your path. )

There’s an old bumper sticker out there that’s rather apropos. It read, “My Karma ran over my Dogma.”

And as we all know, karma can be a bitch.

So keep an eye out for that female dog that may bound in front of your Beemer.

That’s all I’m saying. A li’l courtesy for critters.

And for all those who bypassed my writing and skipped directly to the gory photos?

Well, there aren’t any. What kind of psycho do you think I am?

If you did scroll, man, you are one sick puppy.

©Paul Grignon, 2013, All Rights Reserved.

Heron Healing…

 

Watching nesting herons at a place that my Dad loved is a wonderful way to pay tribute to both fowl and father.

Here, nestled along cattails, swamp grass, and long dead trees, is a place that a sense of healing can be attained.

It doesn’t have to be of the traumatic type; it can be a time and place where one can go to collect their thoughts, to ponder things…to just simply breathe.

Here then, couched amongst rocks and pines and a turbid lagoon, one can relax and be one with nature. To engage all five senses in such a scene is to revel in the splendor of what nature reveals.

Sitting upon a rock, thinking of dear Pops, a lone heron flaps slowly into view, its magnificent wings seemingly in slow motion as it makes its usual u-turn in flight to arrive at its destination. It alights upon a spindly pine festooned with a profusion of sticks, a crude but effective nest for their offspring.

I sit, and listen.

A tiny frog appears nearby, perched upon a sodden hummock, and utters a single croak. It eyes me warily, a silent interloper plunged within his watery world. I gaze at the dead trees, and witness young herons squawking in their nests, flapping their wings in anticipation of first flight. Further on, a kettle of hawks effortlessly ride the thermals, circling ever higher in a hypnotically dervish swirl.

Come Father’s Day, perhaps I will be here once again, honoring my dear Pops, and these wonderful, primordial sentinels of the swamp.

My Dad loved this place, and I think he would have liked to have read this post.

I love you, Dad.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.