#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

Beech on Winter Trail

The forest is its own thanksgiving

~ from “Beeches,” David St. John

Wave comes in early. Frank has dreamed about him. Perri relates a dream, I relate a dream. We have dreamed synchronistically along similar themes, the three of us. I make Wave cereal. Then I go out for my ski. We say goodbye. He will miss me. He’ll be gone for the week when I get back. I take a very good long ski and go down some new tracks. For the first time the snow is of a composition that allows me to cut a trail to the river across the field. The sky is winter-blue-silver above the snow. It’s very quiet. I don’t see birds in the woods, but I do seem them from my window at lunch: the red-headed woodpecker in particular. They are happy at the feeder. Frank says, You have the best view in the house. It’s true, and I appreciate it. It’s warmer today. Frank asks when it’s likely the snow will melt. But not likely in the next week as we are more likely to get additional snow. I’m enjoying my skis in the woods. The beech leaves in little pockets of snow. I have poetry workshop and have done a revision I like a lot and sent it off before my ski. In the afternoon I have time to visit, for tea and conversation, my dear friend who lives nearby. And poetry workshop tonight as well. A poetry filled day, just as I like it. The deer are eating the evergreen shrubs right up to the front door—as never before. Frank asks me why. It’s very clear to me. No Charlie. Next winter they may get a surprise. The shrubs need protection, after all, and Charlie was very good at it.