Goat home improvement

Walk right in

I’ve spent the last two days in the land of pie: first shopping for their ingredients, then making them (pear-cranberry, peanut butter-chocolate, and good ol’ apple), then delivering all but the apple (that one’s ours) to the school’s language trip fundraiser (where the pies were to be sold), then driving H to the aforementioned fundraiser, then returning later myself to help clean up from the same.

In between, there was house cleaning and laundry folding and grocery shopping and wood moving and dish doing and right now my fingers aren’t much interested in typing. They’re more interested in curling up beside me as I watch a movie or stare into the fire.

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Fire – Cat – Stevens – Wallace – Firecat

Firecat

Earthy Anecdote

Every time the bucks went clattering
Over Oklahoma
A firecat bristled in the way.

Wherever they went,
They went clattering,
Until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the right,
Because of the firecat.

Or until they swerved
In a swift, circular line
To the left,
Because of the firecat.

The bucks clattered.
The firecat went leaping,
To the right, to the left,
And
Bristled in the way.

Later, the firecat closed his bright eyes
And slept.

–Wallace Stevens

In that mood

It’s been creeping up on me slowly all day. That old feeling of being unsatisfied without knowing why. Angry at myself. Or at the world. Sick of bad news on the radio. Sad for people suffering through hard times. A headache slowly winding its way from the base of my neck to the top of my head.

There’s no cure for this feeling. It’s just got to pass. Meanwhile, I do what I can to push the feeling a few feet from me, so it’s not hovering so close. Maybe it’ll forget me and move on.

Some people drink. Some people eat chocolate. Some people go dancing. Some people do good deeds and some do dangerous things. And some do what I do: sit in a dim room with the fire roaring and play old records all evening.

Things that we love on this Saturday morning

They seem to like ginger snaps

:: Goats with ginger snap breath.

:: Reusable hand warmers. Every under-insulated farm house I live in should have a good supply.

:: The Public Domain Review, a treasure trove of images that have fallen out of copyright and into the public domain. And excellent essays, too.

:: George Ezra singing “Budapest”. H and I can’t stop dancing.

:: A gorgeous book of watercolor paintings by our friend’s father, Aldren Watson.

Waterfront New York

266 Water Street

Winter comes to November

Line

Fur

First dusting

Worth it

Falling Leaves and Early Snow

In the years to come they will say,
“They fell like the leaves
In the autumn of nineteen thirty-nine.”
November has come to the forest,
To the meadows where we picked the cyclamen.
The year fades with the white frost
On the brown sedge in the hazy meadows,
Where the deer tracks were black in the morning.
Ice forms in the shadows;
Disheveled maples hang over the water;
Deep gold sunlight glistens on the shrunken stream.
Somnolent trout move through pillars of brown and gold.
The yellow maple leaves eddy above them,
The glittering leaves of the cottonwood,
The olive, velvety alder leaves,
The scarlet dogwood leaves,
Most poignant of all.

In the afternoon thin blades of cloud
Move over the mountains;
The storm clouds follow them;
Fine rain falls without wind.
The forest is filled with wet resonant silence.
When the rain pauses the clouds
Cling to the cliffs and the waterfalls.
In the evening the wind changes;
Snow falls in the sunset.
We stand in the snowy twilight
And watch the moon rise in a breach of cloud.
Between the black pines lie narrow bands of moonlight,
Glimmering with floating snow.
An owl cries in the sifting darkness.
The moon has a sheen like a glacier.

–Kenneth Rexroth, from The Collected Shorter Poems. Copyright © 1940