Variations on the Rubaiyat was Thursday's prompt over @ dversepoets
Of Meadows
Reaching the flat upper grassy hillside,
tiny voices speak their stories and minds....
brightest pink, yellow, blue, white wildflowers,
language for waywards, sweet refuge oblige.
At dversepoets today we are writing about family body traits, focusing on a couple of compound adjectives.
Ebbing Tides
The ebbing of the tide and
silken, dark, wet sand
left no trace of him,
or his footprints.
He did not know back then
it wasn't the end
of the line.
They walk just like him,
short legged, yet of fettle form,
sharing his casual gait.
They mimic him,
hand in one pocket,
letting the other
postulate.
Like he did,
his son wears
astute specs on his nose.
There is a tilt, blink,
a nod, salty eyebrows
squint in the sun like his,
a striking familiar pose.
Grandsons have similar
jawlines, smiles, hands
and sophic eyes.
In certain blue angles
of light, his great-grandson
resembles him,
though taller in size.
I wonder if my father knows
his granddaughters,
a new great-granddaughter,
have such fair bonny faces.
Surely he guides them with
a full, happy heart
on journeys to faraway places.
Victoria has kindly asked us to write a Chijitsu or kego, a Japanese poetic form which refers to the transitional time of dawn or dusk, spring and fall, a lingering. It is a paragraph or so, finalized with haiku.
Seeds of Spring
Summer left me..my heart slumped to the ground. Pummeling rain has been my companion since, keeping my heart safe with books and other such indoor friends. Now, lilac and cherry blossoms take their turn to fall. I'm keenly mindful of roses under terra firma, as they harness their reserve to flourish again, Spring is late. I wish it would stay all year - for it's resplendent parade of color, blended scents, baby insects fleeing on their journeys, however short.
Does and their fawns arrive to feed on grass. Birds return, eyeing me warily, yet with familiarity. They still keep their distance, except for the chicadees.
By their sharper chirps or alighting on my sleeve for a split second, they remind me their seed is almost gone...my heart again ascends.
Spring rallies my heart
All life's possibilities
tremble with the earth
Petrarchan sonnet abba–abba–cdc–dca or cde cde English - abab cdcd efef gg
Remembering school days, bed strewn with books
Writing term papers meant I had to cram,
burn midnight oil to pass midterm exams.
Geometry was pure gobbledygook
Good teachers prompted curiosity,
inspired my soul with good literature.
My mind, a craving thirsty aperture
Spanish, chemistry, physiology
Parameciums, amoeba, and frogs,
colored pencil drawings and diagrams.
Unimagined were the internet, spam;
Homework did not include Facebook or blogs.
I wrote about diseases of the horse,
learned of the electrocardiogram.
Enticed by both fiction and history.
Studied hard eating bread, p,b, and jam.
Awoke to the harder lessons of life,
to the sounds of Good Morning Vietnam
the Kennedy, King assassinations,
Reflected on quotes by Omar Khayyam?
Our Thursday prompt comes from Lillian at dversepoets.com and the form is a Shadorma, a phantom poem, origin unknown. Lines are 3-5-3-3-7-5, one or more verses, a fun challenge. The pretty ethereal watercolor below is by Whidbey Island artist, Judi Nyerges Art, and was my inspiration.
Stars Tremble
In concert with choirs
of angels, stars tremble,
welcoming into high heaven his soul.
Beyond the cobalt blue,
light streams through
the panorama of
stained glass windows.
Ivy climbs gilded stairs
There he sits at a table
for highest tea.
He explored life's
beguiling mysteries,
relativity, all
laid before him
in Earth’s fog
and time log.
Awaiting him,
a physicist's dream
only imagined before,
a kingdom of answers to
eternal queries.
Freed from his twisted body,
his empowered mind free,
he's handed the keys to unlock the secrets of the universe.
At his fingertips,
billions of galaxies,
black holes, space travel.
Honored by his presence,
we were privileged.
For his shimmering legacy
and elegant equations,
we thank him for his
curiosity. Still with us but
light years away.
It is Open Link Night (OLN) at dVerse poets as we write without a prompt. This prose poem may not appeal to many but it is what came from my muse because it needed to be written perhaps.
Transparency of a Phantom Thread
With nothing of
himself to hang onto,
it’s a wonder he stays in one piece.
He stares at a lava lamp
for hours.
In his loneliness,
his mind threads every needle with
hope he finds in the light of day.
He scales and walks that narrow brick wall
as others fear his balance.
He weaves himself through textures
of green new leaf growth
and forlorn winter berries,
For in his lapses of memory,
in and out of his reality,
there is always nature's clarity.
The spirit, not to be dissected
into shallow holdings
or remain in a cage with rage,
leaps forward in darkened corridors,
a panther pacing.
Unable to concentrate,
he dwells in a mixed state with bawdy dreams
of secrecy.
Moments of brilliancy submerge, only to re-emerge
amid indistinguishable mumbles.
He goes from taciturn to talking wildly,
to being laid bare in excruciating emotional pain.
Dressed in garb of the ages,
drawing attention from passers by,
he is a curious oddity.
Lacking the wherewithal to be productive,
he walks aimlessly, yet desperately
wishes to be constructive.
In truth there is genius and kindliness.
When stars wished upon are everything,
worries are set free, like a bevy of butterflies.
When it comes to a healthy mind,
what cuts through everything
is the common thread memory of
the tender touch of a mother’s hand
caressing our faces.
If it were not for his wit,
word searching, for poetry’s sake,
would leave me bereft.
None of this is something a glass
of wine can cure.
.
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Monday's Quadrille #50 over at dversepoets and the word is "murmur"...using exactly 44 words.
Helicopter Seeds
Delayed by turbulent morning breeze,
whirled onto my front porch,
helicopter seeds.
I pondered what all falls from the folds of God
onto a mountain slope,
colors its face in radiant hope.
What voices murmur in forests' cradle,
but tender footsteps in soft ambiance.
It's Haibun Monday and we are to write something about our hometown. Check out the responses to the prompt over at dversepoets.
Slaughterhouse Road
Walking home from school over the "Old Slaughterhouse Road" had its pros and cons. The mile long trek across a small mountain built strong legs and heartened our souls. Alongside the road were meadows with wildflowers, tall grass full of grasshoppers and some horses, an occasional house or small farm. Halfway up on the other side were the dark, eery oak woods. Obviously, the gruesome fact of the then working cattle barn nestled therein was not lost on any of us. Often, frightened by our own imaginations, we ran past it as fast as we could. Walking downhill was easy, through the cherry orchards where we loved to run, climb and play, wading, lingering in falling pink and white blosssoms. There was a picture book view of the Columbia River gorge in the distance. We even hiked the road in the dead of winter instead of riding the school bus, throwing snowballs and sliding on the way.
Those moments of our youth are imprinted deep in our souls. When I close my eyes, I can almost put myself right back there in space and time, on Strawberry Mountain, almost like one lifts and moves the arm of a 45rpm record player to a previous groove.
Veiled footsteps in snow,
Echo screams of laughter, fear
Summer's blossoms buzz
At dversepoets.com today it's the Monday Quadrille - #47. We are to use the word "leap" in a 44 word prose or poetry paragraph. Stunning photos to be taken locally in the crisp clear weather.
January Still Life
Under crusty frost,
ivy leans into sun,
defying senescent ferns...
A day shy of full,
a gray moon stares through naked branches
into the window,
...onto
rumpled bed,
leaping low across
inky sky...
as rabbit shadows dash below through snow -
January's otherwise still life canvas.
I cannot NOT be inspired to write of this life, share my work and the miracles therein. We have been instructed by Frank at dversepoets.comto write a Haibun today of something “pleasantly surprising”. Yesterday
Yesterday was a surprisingly pleasant day. After the fog, sunlight filtered through feathered pink-yellow-grey clouds, spreading a soft bluish blanket of hush across the bluff at Ebey’s Landing. The sea resonated with the sound of string instruments being played in the lighthouse drawing room and Olde English Christmas carols being sung by young people. She and I spoke of her friend who had lost her husband suddenly that morning. Then, she told me the exciting news of her daughter expecting a baby girl in May. From a thin frown, her facial expression turned to the most full, radiant smile. Christmas greetings and hugs were exchanged among the intimate small crowd of docents gathered for the afternoon holiday event. As we warmed hands over a small brambling fire, a family of deer gathered to feed in the meadow nearby. I had no idea that morning what the day held. I could not have imagined such distinctly meaningful moments happening simultaneously and in the particular sequence they unfolded into the evening. The contrast some days is not as evident, but the enigma is always there for us to reflect on and imbibe. Pain and joy exist Everyday bittersweet Tears part of happiness
Symbolism is the prompt for today at dversepoets.
I took a stab at it but have struggled with the difference between it and metaphors, similes, and personification over the years, but it is late now.:-)
As I muster the nerve each day to face
life's realities,
I continue to be taken aback.
No conductor at the wheel,
train out of control,
I am losing track
My mind conflated,
time is suspended,
the pendulum has stopped
Are we free falling,
why is there no feeling inside?
In the name of research, please,
question me twenty years from now.
Tell me then the
ridiculousness has been a bad dream, the news spinning ad nauseam cannot be happening;
say life resembles
banana boats in milky ways, or chickens are falling from the sky.
Truly, it's more like
A Night at the Opera,
than anything real
to you or I.
At dversepoets.com today, we are writing of the word ‘visit’. I recall many memorable visits as well as having been the visitor on many interesting occasions, but the following story takes the cake and I was merely the reader/observer.
The Thanksgiving Visitor
“Buddy, you’ll catch your death,”
Aunt Sook chided.
Sixty, yet still childlike,
she’s his distant aunt.
She delivers a warm blanket to him,
an 8 year old, hiding,
seeking comfort in her wood shed.
Others do not understand
their friendship for it transcends
the ordinary realm.
Visiting her country home
for the holiday, Buddy
shares with her the harvesting
of pecans to make fruitcake,
flying kites, laughter
and inside jokes.
Running a risk of being read
much like a book report,
let me say, Truman Capote's
simple trilogy
speaks volumes of the living
Christmas spirit in
heartwarming antidotes
of holiday joy and mirth.
The pair are two peas in a pod,
a mutual admiration
society; the story,
a true treasure trove
of memories.
The Thanksgiving Visitor, One Christmas, and A Christmas Memory, were all made into TV movies.
For as long as I can remember,
they comforted me,
kept me safe, more than toasty warm at night,
reminding me it was fall -
always ready for an early bedtime.
As birthdays passed, I outgrew them quickly.
Mine had cuffs, pockets,
and presented themselves in all colors plaid.
Made from hand picked cotton
grown under a scorching sun,
washed hundreds of times,
flannel summer sheets also kept my body cool.
Napped on one side,the soft fabric,
associated with good horse-sense,
comfortableness, applesauce,
and bologna sandwiches for lunch,
swaddled me.
Snuggling in them with a teddy bear,
I dreamed of sailing boats, pussycats,
and stars in relation to Mars.
When wearing them,
it seemed all was right
in the wide, wide world,
as if it were made of sweet buttery
saltwater taffy.
All that, and I still wondered
about kids who wore nothing to bed
but skivies, walked all day on bare feet,
gunfire and bombs overhead
all through the night,
little food to eat.
I must have led a protected life,
growing up in middle America...
but I think I always knew
it was a perilous world,
not to be taken for granted;
I learned early each Christmas was precious -
and not just because
there was, under the tree,
another set of flannel pajamas,
or a long red plaid flannel nightie!
The visiting football team stayed overnight.
Portland radio news announced 100 mph winds to hurl through the river gorge with an icy bite
Unforgettable, the Columbus Day storm, Oct. 1963,
roofs of homes randomly torn away.
Kick-off time moved to Saturday afternoon
...touchdowns and friendships fade.
dversepoets.com
We are to use a form of the word "kick" in a 44 word Quadrille....
He is well known among islanders living along Whidbey's East Harbor Road in Freeland as Santa Claus. With his snowy white beard and hair, twinkling eyes, and build, he is a classic Santa. One wonders if he were to put his finger aside his nose, it would follow, "...and up the chimney, he rose"?!
Terry, a Teamster beer truck driver for 33 years, worked for the original Olympia Brewery and quickly earned the nick-name Terry Tumwater. Judy, his wife, retired as cook from the Clover Patch Cafe in Bayview. More often than not, he can be seen riding his lawnmower across his expansive front yard or selling firewood he worked hard to chop from trees fallen on his ten acres. One may catch sight of him listening to a Mariners' game outside or with friends who drop by to discuss the news of the day or simply BS. Many a passer-by waves or honks as they cruise by their home. It's not unusual to find a gathering around a bonfire where they listen to him and his friend, Caveman, play toe-tapping Bluegrass music, Terry on his old guitar and Caveman plucking his banjo. His audience, of course, guffaws at his off-colored jokes with his contagious, deep, raucous laugh; they exchange fishing and drinking stories. This pastime is shared while consuming beer or whatever one might bring in a flask from home.
Lately, he has a new story to tell, a tale the 76-year-old man loves to repeat to anyone who cares to listen. His suspenders stretched to the max by his puffed out chest, he recalls with pride the unlikely event that took place last August when he was touched by a moment of fame.
First, to be clear, Terry had few toys as a child. He was one of five brothers, their father a big Norwegian logger. He grew up fighting dirty with the local boys for fun. Over the years, he has accumulated time-worn junk, miscellaneous tools of yesteryear, tractors, lawnmower parts, rusty trucks, beer signs, a few antiques. He built several outbuildings from scratch...a lean-too, tool shed, an outhouse, a shack chock full of collections of old axes, more tools, a locally-carved bear, cast iron frying pans, oil lamps, calendars, an old percolator, and memorabilia from the "Good Old Days". That corner of his backyard is affectionally named "Terry Town".
The tool shed functions as a hideaway for solitude or conversation around a small, wood stove on chilly or rainy evenings. A light above the door guides the way. In the darker months, I carry a lantern when walking to the secluded shack to light my way to and from my car. Always, I am guided by the smell of smoke breathing out from the off-kilter chimney, and the radio I hear inside, tuned to the Oldies station, KIXI.
Terry never imagined in his wildest dreams what was about to unfold one weekend this last summer when he heard rap star Macklemore, who hails from Seattle, asked his videographer to tape a music video at just such a location on Whidbey Island. The videographer happens to be Terry's grandson, who recommended the place. For three days, Macklemore's crew of 60 set up camp in his backyard. Multiple vans and cars arrived full of equipment; a makeshift set resembling a festive campsite was erected against the 70's background designed for the rapper by his producer. An old green upright piano was hauled in, an improvised stage, furniture, pillows, rugs, a dented, bohemian Airstream trailer, lights. Various action scenes were taped of Macklemore rapping. One afternoon, female rock star, Kesha, appeared. She and Macklemore created the four-minute video which later would be dubbed in with the music in a studio. His new album of 16 songs, Gemini, to be released Sept. 22, 2017, includes the one filmed at Terry's called "Good Old Days".
Terry stayed out of the production, mainly watching, but helped moving pieces on the set in his unique backyard. After work each day, food was brought in; extras and crew visited with Terry, became acquainted with Bluegrass as he entertained the crowd. He engaged them by teasing them, as a grandfather might his grandchildren. As host to a very polite and gracious Macklemore, Terry became the center of attention, bathed in the spotlight of a different genre of music for a time.
The secret that Macklemore was shooting a video on the island did not get out until they had wrapped everything up and shipped out the equipment brought in. Otherwise, imagine the onslaught of young people who might have tried to get a glimpse of the star.
For the couple, Judy and Terry's lives are back to normal. They always had a love-hate marriage, losing patience with one another at times. But two years ago, Judy had a very serious health scare. He nursed her back to health. Now that she is recovered, Terry says everything is back to normal. He knows she is well because, when he is a bit cantankerous, she again calls him an asshole at least three times a day!!
For both of them, it was an experience they will never forget, a time when strangers came and left their mark in the form of gentle friendships and shared good times. Macklemore promised to visit when he has a break from working and returns to the island where his mother lives in Langley. After the video was released, the producer returned, deluged the couple with gifts. Among them were beer, chocolates, Macklemore socks and scarves, lawn chairs and CD's. But the grand prize was a brand new guitar, signed by Macklemore himself. Now that it has been tuned just right, according to his ear, you can find Terry still picking bluegrass on his new guitar. Now, however, there is the fond memory of his treasured brush with fame when they, generations apart, came together and made music. You might say these are the new "The Good Old Days".
A rising sun plays with intricate handywork created by
dew and garden spiders.
Rain reveals arrays of shimmering rainbows.
Angel hair tresses of fog
settle thinly in the valley.
In meadows sleeping between
white mountain peaks.
I walk slopes in hues fuchsia, yellow,
midnight blue and wine.
Ankle deep in wildflowers and
columbine.
Gusts of wind blow
the scarf around my neck and chin
against my face,
stinging me.
Leaves spiralling perform their wild wind dance
Stunning are the willow trees,
especially.
A cold worn barn
fades in the sun,
backdrop to a newly plowed
espresso field.
Neglected Scarecrows wear
shredded blue jeans,
lean on bales of hay.
Birds and brown squirrels scurry to safe places.
Early summer air bears the scent
of berry pie.
Time lags as I watch
the sun complete its daily arc to
set behind the mountain silhouette.
My long shadow cast across the meadow
and disappears in the night.
Today, Frank re-introduces the form of the Chaucerian stanza or rhyme royal.
(ababbcc) dversepoets.com
Earth's Achey Heart
There is danger in our fears lying still,
people trembling in cold trenches under
tumbling skies, in soaking rain's steady drill,
homes flattened, tattered land torn asunder,
high winds butting heads with rolling thunder
People trying to gather their shredded lives,
ease the pain of scorched flesh, the meaning of shallow lies.
Poltical rhetoric out of date,
promises, burnt to carbon crumpled leaves
Affairs of state we must repudiate
Fiery alcoves melt vinyl memories,
With living trees, replace hypocrisies
What profit a man to know
this is true?
Earth is where I share my loving with you.
At dversepoets.com today, it's about what is in our refrigerators.....this I painted some time ago, thinking I could use it someday with a poem....
Red leaf lettuce, a lemon, apple, organic peas
Gone are the essential eggs, skim milk, and condiments
Must haves include peanut butter, veggies, and cottage cheese,
fruits, nuts, and non GMO bread
Preoccupied with news of hurricanes, fires, our pernicious President,
I am struck by how much we take food for granted.
When kneeling is, to my mind, a prayer for change and resilience;
in dire times, it stands for gratitude for volunteers, supplies, water, medicine,
sustenance
Did our grandparents not scrimp and save,
rationing during WWII?
What are our plans for surviving disaster, the psychology of salvaging vs prejudice,
not simply making do?
Ar dversepoets.com today, the Monday Quadrille #41..in 44 words, use the word spice or a derivative of it.
Sugar & Spice
Mitochondrial
DNA gave her cheeks of peaches and vanilla ice cream,
hazelnut eyes, saffron hair,
a temperament of
earthy, solemn juniper,
easy as soft rosewater...
allspice true
...she is not the person she
was before, easy
to take for granted,
not hard to read,
We are writing haibuns today at dversepoets.com about the "Why" behind our writing, what our style of writing is.
All there is..
Born under the Aries constellation, writing for me fulfills a need to express emotions. Words rooted in passion, pain, sadness and joy are seeds from which grow stems of my stories, blossoming into scenarios of love under a pale moon, or blades of grass pushing up excruciating growth, or a meadow of amazing realization. My flowers reveal how we love, cry, ache, or dream, how it feels to live the days of our lives. In my garden grow verses descrbing experiences we share as humans, unleashing basic instincts as we react to the world around us, encompassing all there is.
Planted deep within,
a plethora of feelings -
compost of our souls
Flip flops made it difficult
to run across the street to
buy ice cream
The heat was stifling,
my face and arms burned
a hot rosey red...
eighty days without rain...
Then, thunder rolled in,
clouds unreined
a welcome downpour.
My face lifted to the sky,
I wallowed in the cooling shower, raised my arms high,
finished the last of the waffle cookie cone.
In another part of the world, hurricanes.
Reigning angels hearing prayers rushed in, sent ships with water, food, and supplies.
Millions of less fortunate
after the storms, suffering,
wishing, waiting for torrents
of compassion to keep
flooding in.
Embers blink back at me amidst grey smoke
Nothing else on my mind but you and me
Dancing flames speak of summer's fickle end
Of building sand castles on future shores
Forever pink clouds grace your silhouette
Amber shadows bleed from a crying sun
Undulating waves invite us to wade
Gusts of a north wind rustle the sea grass
Upon sunset we fall into starlight
Slowly cease coos of doves in bushes blue
Together, in vintage photos we fade
Pale rainbow palette above,
face in sea's air,
raindrops sashay down upon my face.
A fledgling's feather falls against my cheek.
I drink the fine wine of blissful miracles;
nature sings love notes to my senses
From a rainstorm afar,
bells toll a concierto
It's Open Link Night over at dversepoets.com Find lots of good poetry for reading over the weekend. Mine is prose poetry.
I asked the moon,
"what shall I do
when I want to just hide?"
Must I bare all, unlike you,
a total eclipse of the soul?
When people want to see only
one side, how long will it take
for the earth to turn to coal?
I ask the stars how and when
they will fall, for how
long they will look down on us.
Why is our journey so toiled and jagged,
such a short haul?
And, it's dangerous
venturing out
The sun is split, filters divided
Today I ask the heavens,
"Is life all by chance
or is it destiny? I
want to know why,
intellectually,
to understand why my life
is longer and better
than others', who live with drought,
disease and tyranny.
Not all touches me
in my corner of the world,
yet I feel diminished by
each misdeed against
humanity.
I fail in my small
capacity
to effect a stream
of consciousness, help raise the
world above its searing ignorance
and dissonance
I miss our innocence,
even its trial and strife;
the canary's song not startled,
a grazing flock of deer,
uninterrupted.
Misty-eyed, I ponder
Orion's prism lights,
asking from whence
comes our happenstance
of being
I can't escape the cold reality -
or is this ugliness a dream?
Whose truth leads us out,
keeps us from falling into an abyss?
Certainly not by a man's whim,
a casual glance
or sneer over the shoulder,
or a barbaric
swoop of arms that miss,
perchance.
Solutions are hard to come by
without a leader who knows
how to use the bully pulpit -
to enhance
the world we live in,
rather than subtract
its democracy,
and take along with it,
the beauty of this earth
Divine guidance appears
to be in evil hands.
Where are our morals and mirth?
The prompt for dversepoets
is to write about windows.
by klr 2013
I love windows with a view -
spend much of my life observing from them, daydreaming through them,
in my mind's eye from within them...
of one day..
sitting, looking out at a rainy Paris street scene.
I've never been there, you see... to look out a castle window at white cliffs towering by a foggy Irish sea.
I loved the ordinary backyard view of chickens in old Mexico, hearing mariachis, a lovely rose garden and caves in Extramadura. I've opened a window to hear the soothing song of Hawaii's waves, to see her sunsets.
I remember looking through old wavy glass windows of an old homestead house, could see history, the memories residing therein...a Christmas dinner cooking on a stove, potato peelings, jarred pickles, and quince preserves on the table. Candles in the windows welcomed carolers from the cold.
Stories are embedded in those wavy glass windows and thick walls, of births, birthdays, illness and death. They do not distort the truth.
I used to look out my upstairs bedroom window with a sash, see bold visions of myself climbing into the Big Dipper, sailing boats of nursury rhymes in the night skies.
From the kitchen window with Twinings tea, cup in hand, I've seen raindrops hit, fall, and puddle together over and over again, cats sleeping on their sills.
Windows open to many worlds, their framework a place for masterpieces of art in everyday living theater in the round.
Through the portals of windows, doors, the keyhole of my imagination is unlocked,
leading me beyond the beyond to the unknown yet uncannily familiar future.
Having gifted himself to the world, not racing to win
...finishing his journey...
arriving fulfilled,
he bravely hurdled obstacles
...in stout rusty under-armor,
character true.
His weary wings lift off
life's end post....
flickering into paradise's mystery hush,
weeping hearts
letting him go.
For the first prompt after a two week break, I wrote a 44 word Quadrille using the word "flicker".
Sun enters my soul's open window. The melon pallet precedes the blooming of honeysuckle and drinking of wine. Ms. Cecil Brunner’s rose volunteers higher, wrapping its branches around the garden trellis.
Mixed bachelor buttons grow tall amid green grass and amber yarrow, mirror themselves in aqua inlets of a the sea. Wetland bogs drown out the torches of evening sunsets. Cool tea invites bees to go barefoot in the the June rain. Solstice lingers in its own afterglow. And, somewhere between strawberries and hydrangea skies, the sun is preserved in mason jars for August flamboyant show of gladioli.
Brides feel summer breezes billowing their gowns quietly. Lustrous mornings gradually flow into long evenings of summer’s soft soundtrack. Only a slight movement betrays the steps of a baby deer coming out of the forest. Summer’s hues begin to change to almond muesli and faded yellows. Where the river rounds the bend, one smells wood-smoked barbecue, and perhaps hears the owls and elephants, or the cheers from a football game.
