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The River Styx

Burning fire over a coal-black river.  Pressing onward, licking past, seen but unseen.  Highway to Hades, always there, even in the best  moments.

Summer-paved asphalt road, heavy snow-melt under noon-day sun.  Connective tissue joining one house to another, one disparate story to the next, sighted and sightless.  So close.  So far.

So the wind

The wind flows thickly through an oak who still holds leaves close.  Snow melt runs loud, sun shines.  It is good.

Greetings of the Season

Lights in the darkness exude their own type of silence.  Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you and  yours.

Tracks

Words and worries build up, drift like snow.

Snowfall early this morning on roads of commerce and mind.  Untouched in some places.  Something to see, something further to get through.

I will be the tracks in the snow.

Hello Again

The first time I saw Longshot, he, she or it was a caterpillar.  The second time I saw Longshot, it was a chrysallis.  The third time I saw Longshot was this morning, and he is a butterfly.  Sort of.

Proving prescient, the name Longshot is a good one.  Unobserved, Longshot fell from its spent chrysallis this morning and lay on its back until discovered.  Once righted, he immediately scaled the netting of a habitat I constructed.

Unfortunately, his tightly furled wings relaxed, but did not stretch.  As afternoon wears on, I fear those beautiful orange and black wings will not gain their structure or their purpose.

But a butterfly is not merely wings, and Longshot is clearly of good heart and sound legs.   His lack of ability reflects lack of opportunity – it is too cold now for Longshot to fly south.

Flowers, warmth, nectar, sunlight and space – these things Longshot will have lifelong, if not the companionship of his kind.  Earthbound butterfly, your story is far too familiar.

Changing Times

I am an unabashed fan of The New York Times.  It started with the Science Times, branched out to Dining, then Business Day.  Those more articulate than me speak glowingly of  the breadth of the publication, I just agree.

For years I conducted forays to local outlets to search out  the newspaper and when home delivery came to my town, I signed on.  Now, even in greatly reduced financial circumstance, I maintain that one last vanity – a home subscription to The New York Times (not the Sunday edition).  It means, and delivers, the world to me.

Online too, it rarely fails to deliver.  But yesterday was one of those days.  I received a message informing me my ten free articles for the month have been viewedsubscribe now

Digital content is part of the home delivery package so the message is a technicality for me.  It means I am not recognized.  Usually I log in again and the world, and the news, flow on.

Not so this time.  The first tier  of NYTimes customer service could not solve the problem, so I was passed to technical support – both in Florida.    And in another shameless plug, I will point out NYTimes customer service – real people – are available on weekends all day.

The technical representative I spoke with was in Florida by way of Ohio.  She does not care for the hurricanes of Florida, nor the deep snows of parts of Ohio – but seems to prefer the Buckeye State.  We discussed the underground threat of earthquake  in the west verses above ground threat of tornado and hurricane in the Midwest and East.  A question of whether you prefer warning with your natural disaster.  But I digress.

With polite proficiency, the technical representative assessed and addressed my problem.  The software inexplicably showed I had not logged out for years, and recognized me only as who I was.   We are none of us, especially me, who we were and sometimes it takes a glitch to remember that.  Deftly handled, the software now recognizes who I am, and the world once again streams across my computer screen.

I thanked the rep and she thanked me for the conversation.  She said many people are agitated at technical problems.  I told her I thought her skill set should get her wherever she wants to go in life – even back to Ohio.

Hanging in there…

Update: Longshot is still hanging around.

First observed in chrysallis form on October 28, Longshot remains green and silent.  Unless eyes deceive, part of the chrysallis may be darkening.  Decay or destiny?

A pocket of unseasonably fair weather has descended, Longshot appears to have a weather window between now and  Thanksgiving. Odds remain long.  Stay tuned.

Generations

She returned this evening, as she does.  A praying mantis.  Each evening now, as days shorten and chill, she overnights near my office window.

Like her mother before her, she laid egg cases in the agastache in the garden beneath the window and now sits quietly next to them.  Her mother was the biggest praying mantis I ever saw.  Inside the gate,  tucked off from harsh wind, the garden is protected.  A good place to live life.

She is dying now – like her mother before her.  Once bright green, she is browning.  She remains so still I think she has already passed.  It is so cold now.   In spring, I will bury her in that garden as I did her mother.  I am sure there is a keen biological reason for the similarity of habit.  But I prefer  the memory of generations.

Here Comes The Sun

The sky blushed apricot this morning, the sun a burnt orange disk on the horizon.  Colours only seen at dawn and dusk, my bedroom is painted the same colour — chilled cantaloupe they call it.  Nothing cold about it.

It is out there right now, view available to all, no expensive real estate, frequent flier miles or reservations required.  Just look up.

Step Up

And for all of you that live stateside, today is the day. Don’t forget to get out and rock that vote.