A newborn Day with a Ponderosa
I'm scampering along in the early morning, sniffing a blade here and a pebble there, crossing over dead needles, and—oh! that amazing smell of needle green backed by the broken twig leftover from last year-- the dry pine needles, red and rich in the morning wet. Those new-day chance encounters.
I’m sure it’s right here I turn left. No, right. I just get those two mixed up for some reason. It could be because I have these feet and tail and things. In my recent past life as we know, I only had two feet (and of course I didn’t have a tail, which was a disappointment). But this multi-footed situation is much better than that time I was an earthworm! Boy! Which hand is left? Left foot? Are you joking or what?
Anyway, I’m sure it’s here I go right for a while until I reach the turnoff at the balding root. I usually stop there and dig around for a nut I lost track of. I am just perplexed why I don’t exactly know where they are! It hasn’t been that long. Well, I guess I ought to wait until the days grow longer, but the ground is soft or I wouldn’t be awake! This whole time thing is really pretty hard. I know it’s all about pulse and cycles, but who am I? Puccini?
I’m sure it’s right here I turn left. No, right. I just get those two mixed up for some reason. It could be because I have these feet and tail and things. In my recent past life as we know, I only had two feet (and of course I didn’t have a tail, which was a disappointment). But this multi-footed situation is much better than that time I was an earthworm! Boy! Which hand is left? Left foot? Are you joking or what?
Anyway, I’m sure it’s here I go right for a while until I reach the turnoff at the balding root. I usually stop there and dig around for a nut I lost track of. I am just perplexed why I don’t exactly know where they are! It hasn’t been that long. Well, I guess I ought to wait until the days grow longer, but the ground is soft or I wouldn’t be awake! This whole time thing is really pretty hard. I know it’s all about pulse and cycles, but who am I? Puccini?
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| Ponderosa Pine (Santa Fe) by Susie Hermanson |
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