Blog

Today I want to share the untakeable photos.

The way the gentle post storm breeze is kissing my face.

The way, too late, I noticed the egret gliding regally through the sky.

The clean but salty air filling first my nostrils, then my lungs, and finally my soul.

I love it when I lose myself on a familiar path
and I am not sure exactly which curve I have turned
or how far I’ve walked.
Knowing I am safe because I will know when the path ends,
but delighted that I’ve been distracted by the moon setting,
the sun rising,
the rabbits playing,
and the finches teasingly avoiding being captured in my lens.

The dog and I walked in the neighborhood today.
We listened to the birds singing, calling out to each other.
We wondered if they were playing,
or if they were working,
or if they knew the difference.
Or even how could it matter?
The dog and I thought.
Yes he thought.
He thinks exactly like me.
At least on our walks.

I stand leaning on the fence at
Cooks Brook Beach.

I glance to the corner of the parking lot that served as homeplate on these early mornings before the normal people came.
I remember hitting a line drive foul that Kevin missed.
The ball hit a red headed girl from Worcester in the wrist but didn’t hurt because she was wearing hippie bracelets she had bought in Ptown the previous night.
She told me this as we made out in the dunes later that night. 
Two fourteen year olds kissing in the moonlight.
Kevin told me I owed him a favor
and I don’t know if I ever delivered sufficiently.

But looking out at the water,  I am struck by the sunsets I missed while running around.
That Kevin missed.
That Wayne missed.
Those crazy youthful summers.
All the sunsets I still miss as well as the happy hoodlums that were and still are my friends.

I think that life is neither too long nor too short.

But I miss those days.

I stand here and hear echos.

Crash and Burn:
I know that is where this is going.
We are so past the
Live and Learn
That the question is
What exactly will crash
And will that directly lead to the
Burn?
Or will that happen separate and apart,
Separated by small or large space?
Even though, in the meaning of time throughout the centuries
It will feel instantaneous.
But it will not have been spontaneous.
For WE watch each and every spark,
WE hear
With each our own ears,
And with OUR collective ear,
each and every crackle.
As WE watch the sticks rubbed furiously together,
Just waiting for ignition.
Yet we’ve already seen the torches aflame.
It is said that Rome burned.
Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.
Given these metaphors of historical relevance,
Whom do you trust?

I will look at you intently

As words flow from your mouth

But past my eyes will be a vast wasteland

With steady winds allowing the meanings

Or lack thereof

To cling to nothing

And lose their ability to affect me at all.

The intent to appear to be attending

Will be the most effective act of love

I can muster at this time.

I Confess

I confess that I cannot confidently distinguish a loon from an egret from a heron.

It is not that I may get it right, if asked, but knowing that is not because of having done the work and may just as likely be wrong than right.

The same could be said of identifying virtually any interesting birds I may see on my many nature walks,

And that is I can not be assured that I can correctly identify by sight or sound, despite loving all of what I see and hear.

Not being able to correctly name the species of all these amazing creatures, I am left to give them all only one name in the same,

That is:

Beautiful.

I can be sure of that.