every branch
was made big with wind
while we
sat diminished
hunkered down
with steaming cups,
muddied boots,
cold-red cheeks,
together beneath
that orange tarp
cracking
with every gust
we stayed,
shivered, laughing
while others
fled the storm –
a splendid day,
my splendid friend
© Sarah Whiteley
we sat, as I imagine
you might have envied,
ten feet above the shoreline
bracing ourselves against
ridgeline winds with
whiskey warmed in cider
and watching the trout rise
in sudden ripples to
pick off the new hatch
and now returning to learn
that you’ve gone – startling
as a hook in the mouth
© Sarah Whiteley
a grackle with eyes the color of pale topaz
strolls across the tiles of the bungalow
and I let him make his own conclusions
about when to take his leave
every morning, he comes to the stone basin
where I rinse the sand from my feet
to drink his fill while I have my coffee
and fight the wind to hold the pages of my book
and now he seems to make an inspection
of the small trail of white sand
I’ve somehow managed to track inside,
merely curious without being accusatory
as if he too knows the magic of sand
and how it follows behind bare feet,
leaving glyphic clues to where we’ve been
regardless of how often we rinse or sweep
© Sarah Whiteley
I wish I had managed to get a better picture of this guy – he was a constant presence during my trip to Mexico last year. I didn’t make it this year. I ended up canceling at the last minute (for very good, but still painful reasons) and I’ve been feeling the twinge today of missing that very special place. But I know I’ll go back and hopefully one day soon.
for once my crows
(my noisome watchers)
ignore the shrill complaints
of a wheeling gull
and crouch instead
on snow-tipped branches,
giving way to the whims
of a relentless wind
I’d invite them in
(my boot-blacked friends)
but they’d tease the dogs,
pluck my bright beads
from the lighted tree
and delightedly unwind
every blessed color
in the overflow of yarn
instead I stay ensconced
in dog-warmed blankets
and startlingly bright socks
and watch them accusingly
hunched in what I imagine
is a crowish glare
willing the chill of winter
through my windows
© Sarah Whiteley
The poor crows! It’s bright and beautiful outside at the moment, but it snowed overnight and there’s a very insistent wind out there with a decidedly arctic chill to it. I was swamped by all 5 of Coyote’s family this morning on my walk and I was sure to give them plenty of treats. I think Freyja was a little offended when the father across the street said “look at the birds!” to his little daughter instead of the usual “look at the doggie in the pretty sweater!”
Today is the perfect sort of day for hot chocolate and my largest knitting project on my lap. From where I sit, I can see the crows coming and going, stopping outside my window to see where the rest of their treats are.
ebbtide 