Waders II
- At July 26, 2011
- By Dian Day
- In Travelling
0
The boys run through the shallow water like piping plovers. Their calls carry across the beach: “Look! A crab! A jellyfish! A minnow!” They run back and forth, pointing to the living creatures at their feet, jumping backwards when the pinchers get too near their toes. They don’t think of lunch; but still, they have a mouth-watering curiosity.
Waders
- At July 21, 2011
- By Dian Day
- In Travelling
- 0
The plovers lift their wings on the beach and dash across the sand into the shallow water, laughing like carefree children. Once there, they wade slowly along the tide line, looking intently for lunch. They change their demeanour by the minute: playing turns to to squabbling; running gleefully turns to standing solemnly. Like children, they are made up entirely by the here and now.
Storm Clouds
- At July 18, 2011
- By Dian Day
- In Home
- 0
This year, summer days are elusive. Like fiddleheads, wild strawberries, and morel mushrooms, we must gather them where and when we find them, and keep a few to eat another time. Today, I am savouring yesterday’s sun on my tongue; the taste is torrid and salty with a pinch of gritty sand borne lightly on the wind.
Open Sky
- At July 13, 2011
- By Dian Day
- In Travelling
- 0
The clouds open up, showing a blue that is always so hard to remember. This blue is like a door or a window to another dimension. Our thoughts ride the air currents and journey through the opening; they float through the universe, perfectly preserved. We stay here, but who knows how far we can reach?
Views
- At July 12, 2011
- By Dian Day
- In Travelling
- 0
I wonder sometimes if it is primal, instinctive, and mythic, or if I have merely learned somehow to feel a certain ache when gazing at a perfect view. It is not exactly joy, nor a sense of awe, nor a feeling of belonging; there are still many things in life we have no words for, and are best left solely to feeling.
Gone
- At July 06, 2011
- By Dian Day
- In Travelling
- 0
A pair of finches swoop and dive against a backdrop of eternal blue, playing a game of sky tag along the centreline as if there is nothing in the world but lift and air current and heat dancing up from the pavement. My foot is on the way to the brake, but the terrible sound of tiny bird against the car is unmistakable. And there it lies, dead on the road, too quick for comfort.
Feather
- At July 04, 2011
- By Dian Day
- In The Big Backyard
- 0
A hawk’s feather lies along the path. I stop to examine it, look carefully around to see if there are any others hidden among the bushes, try to discover whether just this feather was lost during a moult, or whether clumps of scattered feathers might indicate that a hawk died here. Today, as usual, there isn’t enough evidence to draw a firm conclusion. It is the forest’s equivalent of a single well-worn running shoe found beside a highway: we have to make up the back-story ourselves.