february, life, writing

february

February makes me want to sleep. Pull the covers over my head and sleep. I’m pretty sure I’m not depressed, I don’t feel depressed. I just feel like I want to take a break. Tune out for awhile.

Maybe I need to collect myself. Assimilate.

But I don’t do that. I mostly just sleep.

Fortunately, February’s a short month.

bamboo, nature, sunlit

a sunny sunday

photographed february 9, 2020

If you get up close and keep your eyes on the movement of the leaves, and the rhythm of the breeze, it’s almost like a summer day and standing underneath a willow tree.

But it’s not. It’s February.

And just a cluster of bamboo, at the edge of a creek.

nature, photography, pin oaks, prose, writing

pin oaks

Pin oaks are odd. They keep some leaves til spring. The leaves are ugly, more like tree clutter than adornment. Limp lifeless dull rusty. Nevertheless, on a February day, when the sky’s gray, and everything around you feels dreary and quiet, the wind picks up a bit, and there’s a soft rustle up above. High above.

It’s something like a hiss.

Like frozen crystals brushing by in an icy snow, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Or maybe the scraping a towhee makes when it’s tossing sticks and leaves under brush on a summer’s hunt.

A little softer than the crunch of fancy tissue we bunch around a gift for someone’s birthday.

Yeah, the pin oaks shiver. And then they whisper to the wind.

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photograph from january 18, 2020