Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

Dry ground and a bit of sun.

January 17, 2018


I don't have an answer for how or when to anticipate a shift in landscape, in circumstance. Maybe we're not meant to know, or we'd spend all our time hibernating until the thaw. Not that such a life would be all bad, really, when we're up against it, exhausted by the view from our own windy perch. 


But we're not so lucky as to live in caves, sleep under layers of fat and fur, dreaming of fish and berries and purloined bird feeders. No, we have to, are programmed to, get up, go on, and I wonder, is that part of the problem? That programming bit? No doubt we've both done it and allowed it to be done to ourselves, and I don't see how we can give it up now--all that technology, even for those of us who try to shut it off, shut it down two days a week or so--we're embedded. 


So maybe that's what we do--sleep when we can until, one morning, we wake to sun, shrug off a long winter's pallor to ramble off in search of wild things like berries and fish and meandering bears. 





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This Quiet Earth