Scratching Away

Autumn, and black earth and sunlight: the transcendent decay.

I found a yew tree yesterday in the park upon which a large ash had collapsed. The yew, an ancient source of bows, is an old and natural symbol of death; so in its creaking age, it is resilient.

I was looking for deadfall that I might use for making a bow. No luck here, but I climbed up it while looking, my full weight barely sinking thin bows. Comfortable up there. Underneath the green-black canopy, I spotted Chantrell mushrooms. I think. Later I may brave the mushrooms under the death tree. At $15 a pound, isn't a little mortal terror a bargain?

A dull brown wren chirped oddly - normally a melodic bird - not as long as my thumb, light as a dust bunny, it hopped around its over-mossed den on the forest floor, broadcasting wrenformation.

A wise friend once told me: you must be an hour outside every day. She had eyes green like a northern sound, Vermeer lips, and perfect oval nostrils. You listen.

I am fond of Discovery park here in Seattle - but you already know how to sing praises to nature.