WHOEVER WE ARE

Photo by S. Auberle

Back from the West, once again in my northern country. Eyes adjusting again to a more intimate landscape.

Sitting here writing at dawn on the Fourth of July, under a red sky--red in the morning, sailors take warning--my grandma always said--she who couldn't have been less of a sailor--subscribed to that theory and I find, more often than not, it holds true.

Watching a pair of cardinals on the feeder and one pudgy seagull strolling across my yard. Piano music, tea and scones. I love awakening to the first birdsong at 4:00 a.m. now, as the earth turns once again toward darkness. Around summer solstice birds began singing about 3:30 a.m.

The first line of a poem to be written comes to me: won't you tell me and I wonder what it is I want to be told.

Sadness--thinking of the recent funeral and this brevity of life...

Happiness--for my Western journey and the one who shared it with me and for this place, this time, these people--the person who left a bag of sweet peaches on my front porch to find when I returned...

Jim Harrison says "whoever we are isn't for certain."

I believe that.

- mimi