Veins

Yesterday afternoon, I was waiting for Elenka to return from the city. Usually in the afternoon, I have some music tuned to either a classical station(WBACH) or to WMPG the local college and their eclectic mix of Hendrix, Left Banke, Tim Buckley to hip hop. I often play it loud, till I hear her car in the driveway, but yesterday I settled for just listening to my grandparents' timepiece ticking away in the kitchen. I sat by the woodstove in silence with nothing but the clock's refrain. I was surprised how I enjoyed it. It was music!

Dead Tree

Etching you a few words against a gray sky this morning. A tree like this always reminds me of the plague of Dutch Elm disease that attacked Portland in the 60s. On Stevens, I remember probably 50 or 60 elms that the Park Dept. took down in one stretch... in one day. It was so sad to see the red Xs on the trees lining the Avenue. I mean they took them ALL down. Painful! Portland was and still is the Forest City for crying out loud! When I caught site of this vacant tree yesterday, I recalled that day of screaming chainsaws and large chunks of elms scattered across lawns. I sat on our front porch, ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watched the destruction. For years after, you could find sawdust along edges of the street and sidewalks. A sad requiem!

7:22 PM July 21

If the sky turns green, run for cover. I don't know if this is true or some old wives' tale. Until this week, I had no first hand experience with a tornado. My son went to school in the Midwest at IU and had his share tornado scares. He related many colorful stories about his run ins with a few, but myself I never had been near one til this past Wednesday. Severe thunderstorms? Had 'em. Hail storms? Had 'em. Hurricanes? Had 'em. Ice storms? Had 'em. Blizzards? Had 'em. But tornadoes? NEVER! Til this past Wednesday, when the southern Maine area near us had three of them within about an hour(Alfred, Limrick and Gorham). On the television, they kept saying, if one approaches go to the cellar, bathtub or if in a vehicle to a ditch and keep low. Well, when the weatherman pointed out, on his radar screen, that the fierce storm was heading right for our road, and the sky turned a funky yellow, the wind and heavy rain picked up, it was time to head downstairs. Long story short, we spent about 40 minutes with a static-tinted radio, flashlights, pillows and no beer. That last item was a mistake that won't happen again. This time, we dodged the bullet, but others nearby weren't so lucky and received severe tree damage. I've seen photos of the sky just about pitch black at 7 PM... if it turned green, I don't ever want to see it. That's as close as I want to be to one of those storms.

Backyard Sky

Yesterday afternoon the skies out back ended in a watercolor wash. I hate to cut a tree, but somethings in life need to be done for the greater good. I took down the large spruce last weekend that was right against the front of our home and beginning to do damage to the roof. When we moved in back in '77, the tree was about an 8 footer. When it hit the driveway Saturday, and was tackled by two chainsaws, it had reached the height of about forty feet. The last few afternoons I've been busy moving the remnants up back. When I was done yesterday, looked up over the back treeline and there it was filling up my world. A simple backdrop, but so magnificent-- even the camera couldn't do it justice.

Dunes

Well, I'm a day late for Sky Friday, but this early morning dappled ceiling stopped me in my tracks for a look. The dunes were wet, cold, windy and unfriendly, but this sky was breathtaking. Came across this piece on one of my poetry sites awhile ago. It fits the feeling here.
Traces
By Peter Munro
Denting the edge of a sandflat,
footprints pool with water cold as blood
Light ripples the sapphire bay.
Through a muffle of haze
a bouy tells its shoal
like a soul lost in its shell of skin.
That distant tolling frays
on the dune-grass that slices sand
above the highest tidal wrack.
A northerly ticks grains against green blades,
braids sunlight, salt, and the cry of a single gull.
At the whiskery touch of wind
he turns and sees his footprints
lead to him.