Mornings hang cold and heavy, mysterious, shrouded in thick fog. Woods aglow in emerald moss. Branches draped in languid swaths of lichen. Water drops cling to swollen tips of the oaks gnarled branches. By mid day, the ground clouds dissolve into high blue sky, revealing distant hills dusted with snow. Sun is a welcomed visitor, warming sprouted starts in the greenhouse, while cats lay in its illumination sprawling across the old worn rug.

Rain has held for days now. Before bed I sit out under stars, oh the magic of the stars that have been hidden from sight for weeks, with my tobacco pipe and river babble and distant prattling of frogs in the marsh on the other end of the meadow. Frogs I rarely see, only hear. I used to stalk them, felt I had to see them, maybe to prove they were real. Invariably, as I got closer, they would fall silent. I never could find them in the reeds and mud. I have since learned to let them be. Live with them harmoniously. Enjoy the gift they share of song on moist nights; without annoyance of this two legged creeping up in chunky rubber boots as if they wouldn’t notice.

This is enough.

The river calms, slightly subsides, subdues to an even background drone. It is noticeably quieter, though you’re never without the river’s pulse here. Last week, I noted the return of robins, little leaves emerging on gooseberry branches, and delicate buds on tips of dogwood.

Who knows if the braced for snow and cold will come, or if she will be mild, gentle with us this winter.

Bob has been away. In his absence, I find myself speaking to the dogs and horses, cats and chickens as we putter about the ranch finding plenty to do in the sunlight. Probably, I do this even when he’s home. Apparently, I’ve got plenty to say. No one around here seems to mind. They are as used to my chatter as I am with their silent yet attentive response.

I will keep this short this week. There are other places I get to ramble, as the story of a journey, inner and outer, unfurls in ways I didn’t realize it was meant to go. Not too different, I suppose, from how journeys actually progress.

Until next time,

With love, always love,

Gin