This week, there was a morning when I woke up suddenly, very early, and the sunrise was streaming into the room and throwing patches of orange-rose squares on the walls. Everything looked different with long blue-gray shadows. It was startling to think that this happens every day and I sleep through it.
There was that moment when I found the tiny bird's skull in the garden.
There was a night when I went for a walk and the sunset slowly toasted itself into evening above the blush, and that sort of wonderful taupe tinted with pink ~ the trees heavy with foliage, torn edges frittering themselves away and down to the ground. The moon was so white, so round against the colors, bobbing along on my walk with me, hiding and reappearing from between branches and above houses, moving at a terrific pace; I could hardly keep up with it. Then it found itself softly over a field, soaring as slow as the day is long.
The afternoon my parents came for lunch, sharing bear and moose and eagles stories from their trip to Glacier this summer, my mom with feathers and shed rattlesnakeskin and thrifted books for me.
And a day just after breakfast when tim and I went to the park, at my request, and hiked up on the flood-bared trails, a rustling smooth path of leaves leading into yellow tunnels of fall sunshine. The weather was warm for november, and we sat by the creek on our different rocks, in sight of each other but not within talking distance, and I looked at driftwood and watched the shadows underwater shift, the green water carrying its load of yellow leaves. The empty hummingbird nest was gone, swept away by last month's hurricane. I could see tim sipping his coffee, through the trees, perched on his rock, and I could feel the chill of winter in mine under me.
It's been a good few days here.