The day is so still. Grey skies, the maple branches a bare lacework against the clouds. I’m making Cedar Spirits, building inventory for the Christmas fairs. Bob is out looking after our neighbor for a few hours, and I’m here alone with the sleeping cats.
I’ve been working in pure silence, not even turning the radio on. Hunched up crosslegged in the loft where I keep the overflowing baskets of shells and feathers and sticks and stones. Hearing my breath in and out, aware of being alive.
Quiet November afternoon
Horned Green Man
The day is so still. Grey skies, the maple branches a bare lacework against the clouds. I’m making Cedar Spirits, building inventory for the Christmas fairs. Bob is out looking after our neighbor for a few hours, and I’m here alone with the sleeping cats.
I’ve been working in pure silence, not even turning the radio on. Hunched up crosslegged in the loft where I keep the overflowing baskets of shells and feathers and sticks and stones. Hearing my breath in and out, aware of being alive.