Friday, October 30, 2009
For some reason, Karl the Wonder Dog changed his sleep-in-for-fall morning routine today and had me out and about before the coffee was ready. It rained all night and the 5 gallon buckets we use so many of served as small rain gauges and showed 2" or more had fallen since dinner time. Karl could care less as he wanted to sniff for early morning visitors apparently out for breakfast now that the rain had stopped.
The leash dragged me right and left and we came upon a moose track in the road that caused Karl to stop and turn. He knew it was big and the footprint in the hard dirt confirmed we'd be looking up to this one as we shared morning greetings. Back home we headed as the fog continued to build.
Karl turned right and headed for the maple sugar bush where I like to look out to Hooker Mountain. I doubted the fog would permit a view but Karl likes to walk in the deep leaves so off we went. As I stood among the trees, for some reason my favorite Carl Sandburg came back to me. Fog....
The fog comes
On little cat feet
It sits looking
over harbor and city,
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Sandburg, 1916
The fog was not moving on, it was thickening and coming closer. The woods smelled good. A rain drop landed on my nose. We headed for home.
The leash dragged me right and left and we came upon a moose track in the road that caused Karl to stop and turn. He knew it was big and the footprint in the hard dirt confirmed we'd be looking up to this one as we shared morning greetings. Back home we headed as the fog continued to build.
Karl turned right and headed for the maple sugar bush where I like to look out to Hooker Mountain. I doubted the fog would permit a view but Karl likes to walk in the deep leaves so off we went. As I stood among the trees, for some reason my favorite Carl Sandburg came back to me. Fog....
The fog comes
On little cat feet
It sits looking
over harbor and city,
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Sandburg, 1916
The fog was not moving on, it was thickening and coming closer. The woods smelled good. A rain drop landed on my nose. We headed for home.
Writing from the mountain above Peacham Pond where a loon calls primitively as a chipmunk runs in front of us with a mouthful of maple seeds.
George Africa
The Vermont Gardener
Vermont Flower Farm
No comments:
Post a Comment