“Can anyone tell me why we compost yard trimmings?” Hand high in the air, fingers splayed, Nell mouths, “Pick me, pick me!” “Yes, Nell.” She sits taller, chin up, shoulders back, eyes sparkling. “So all the good stuff in the leaves and branches can turn into dirt.” She fairly spits the last word, clearly enjoying […]
Dusk is settling to dark on this cool September eve, and the first star hangs low and bright in the sky, twinkling with the cheery strands we’ve stretched high above the perimeter of the dance floor.
The sandy path feels good, cool on my soles. I round the bend and there, under the thorny tendrils of a wild rose bush, lie the bottoms of two bare feet, tiny and black with dirt.
Momentarily lucid, I smell scat–fox. Where? I raise my head, but the tears come all the more. Alone here on the open hills, I wail, and on the in-breath, that scat again.
I taste the snow, each individual crystal bursting as it melts on my tongue. My mitten smells of wet wool and cold.
As we left, Lotty and I strung a garland of wild asters and daisies across the door, to be removed only by the bride and groom on the morrow, when they enter to spend their first night in their new home.
I am absolutely certain, though others disputed it, that I saw a mountain lion standing on the bluff overlooking the roadway as it curved down into the big valley beyond the Village of Adriene.
Sweat trickles from the band round my brow into my ears and down my cheek. The back of my hand, as I wipe my face, smells of dirt, more sweat and the oils of well-used, well-kept tools.
Gorged on wild berries, I’m deliciously full and sticky, lying here on the grass beside the stream, hat over my face, filtering just enough of the sun.
We’re making daub to finish Peter and Livia’s cob house. I step in gingerly. I have to warm up to the idea of muddy feet. But then it feels so good–gritty, cool, squirting between my toes.