HNY

Granted, my most recent essay is about regional art, both the "regional" and "art" perhaps meriting little attention from your eyeballs, and even though I address some larger issues concerning art, the same might still hold true.

I would be inclined to not link it at all if I didn't think there was more to be gleaned.

It does not escape me that Christmas is upon us. Nevertheless, I can't say I am well-prepared. I have a plan, and I do plan on proceeding with it later today, even though it may require more energy and creativity than I can muster, especially since I have no idea what materials I might find to make it come to fruition.

However, since I'm here and don't now when I might return, I'll wish you, my readers, a Merry Christmas now. And if you don't celebrate, please know that my gratitude, warm thoughts and well-wishes are still extended.

If it's personal is it a parable?

Well, if you find of interest the fact that I noticed a house on my way into town I had never seen before three large firs were cut down in front of it, then you've come to the right place.

Oh, there's another essay up and another on the way; I've written some poems; after a vicious cold snap, we've replaced pretty much everything associated with the well except the pump house; pretty much all the the Christmas packages have been shipped (wife did the heavy lifting, meaning the buying and wrapping); Christmas Eve, Christmas and New Year menus have been planned; photos; and there's another dog in the house, big, fat and blind. Looks a lot like me.

Well, it's white.

The wife has taken to fostering senior dogs in need of rescue.

Like me.

And the house has had to be rearranged to accommodate.

Like...

I was walking said dog the other day when something rather remarkable happened.

Every winter since we moved here I've noticed a flock of small birds that quickly flit between trees. They are so small and elusive they seem almost unnatural, yet in reality they are about the same size as a wren. They also make a noise, a high-pitched tweet not unlike the sound a Cedar Waxwing makes. Thing is, they move too fast and are generally too far away from me to see any markings.

The dog and I were out by the barn when I heard them. Accustomed to seeing them in the air, I didn't spot them right away and had to focus on where the noise was coming from. They were along the front of the red barn, the adjoining fence row, on up to the metal barn, about a dozen of them. And although they kept moving in short bursts of flight, they were close enough for me see markings. I was excited.

Then one flew up, did a little looping swirl and landed for a couple seconds right at my feet.

I was ecstatic.

The dog was oblivious.

Golden-crowned Kinglet

Like I would have forgotten...

Just for you, 36.

Miss me?

I suppose I should write something...

...which is another way to pretty much say what I write every time I sit down to post here...

...which is the same turn of phrase on its head as is my wont...

...and then the gratuitous self-effacing remark that follows...

I've been home a couple days now, paying for it coming as going. And as restful as it was supposed to be, it was not. Not that I expected more, but less would have been nice. Suffice the wife and mother for two weeks, neither of which I spend in that close of proximity for extended periods. Nor they.

But now with two days in the Dungeon, from here on out referred to as the Low Residency, a sense of normalcy (loose use) slowly returns. Thumper again beats out his usual dirge although my gut has yet to cease its frequent purge.

TMI, even couched in rhyme? Then how about some pictures?

 No wonder, really, huh?