Maybe it is wishful thinking. Maybe the child in me never stops hoping for a miracle. Maybe it is magic anyway.
Ducks stay the winter. They didn't always. When winters were still winters that meant it, ducks flew away more South where temperatures seemed friendlier to them.
But winters have become rather wishy-washy. Not fierce enough to frighten the winged ones away. And why would they not stay? That species called humans brings them food a plenty. When
fish , water insects, and plants are scarce, humans provide. Well meant, but not wise.
I live near a creek streaming strong enough to not freeze over. In a white snow landscape, the water looks black. Black and mysterious. Ducks gather there protected by the woodsy grow both sides. Spring must be on their mind. Mating is on their mind. There are exactly as many males as females busily duck talking and swimming around. A peaceful sound. Their feather coats shine. A deep, gleamy shine.
But wait, no duckling could be born yet, could it? What's that cheepy, whistling baby sound. A bird? I search the trees around. No bird in sight. I've heard this sound now each day I pass. I stop to look. Try to find a duck that forgot to grow up. I study their individual faces. See if one sounds different from the others. But although I hear that clear sound repeat itself, I cannot pin point it.
So I dream of other dimensions. Maybe I walk on the dividing line between two. Maybe another world is entering my awareness. It is late spring in that world. It is alive with many birds, and colourful flowers. It is a young world full of babies and life beginning. A little duckling got separated from his mommy. It calls out in a clear voice. I can hear it. It is speed-run-swimming -hardly touching the water- after her.
From my wintry world I entered new life. Did I? Ah, sometimes I don't like mysteries explained. A little later, suddenly, a flock of mourning doves took flight, out of nowhere seemingly. I heard the whistling from their wings.
And I knew, a single one of that sound was my baby duck. Or the sound from a duck that forgot to grow up. Right in this world. No mystery, no miracle, no magic. But wait, that's not right either, is it?
The whistling sound from the wings of a mourning dove, isn't that mysterious and magic in itself? Those pairs of gleaming ducks, preparing for spring and new life, using their duck emotions and wisdom, how can that be common? Me standing here, listening, watching, dreaming, experiencing at different levels... Ah yes, I think, miracles do exist.
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Dove Tale Writers have banded together because we are addicted. Our drug is the written word. In the privacy of our own psyches, we write about our loves, our demons. We write about our joys, our scars. We write about the places we have been, and the places we hope to go. As one of our Dove Tale authors writes, "There will always be stones to turn and stories to write."
3 comments:
Happy New Year, WT.
Another year, that is miracle, too. A nice miracle, we are still here. Still writing, still thinking, still loving.
Still blogging.
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Mmmmmm, what language do I have to learn to be able to read that?
I am back on line, guys. Matt fixed it. He didn't know what he did to fix it. Was a surprize. Maybe a miracle.
Happy New Year to all of you.
Still loving, yeah. A divided miracle for me. The two things I love most to do is going with my gang to Haysville, and going to editing circle. And why, oh why do they land time and again on the same day??? My mind is going like a teeter totter. Or is it like a weigh scale? I think now I refrain from going to editing, since the e-mail tells me there are many going. Maybe too much now. Last minute decision not good.
Can you tell I just finished reading a book where dialogue was in a Vietnamese accent? LOL.
Last night I went swimming. The same question that boggled my mind for ages pushed to the surface again. I studied the water that looks blue from above. Why does white water look blue? Someone told me "Water IS blue." Mmmmm, that didn't satisfy me. When I push the water in the pool with my hands, it reflects deep blue. When I cup it in my hands, it is colourless. Closer to the side of the pool wall, it looks more greenish. Looking down from a plane, the water in the ocean looks grey. Sometimes, like in the creek I wrote about in this story, water looks black. So, I reasoned that water is colourles. I wondered if the bending of light, the russling around of molecules had to do with it? Oh yeah, above the Western provinces,looking from a plane some lakes look bright geen. And the meditteranian ocean, I know from reading, is deep blue.So, I asked Matt what he thought. And he actually knew, and confirmed that is has to do with the reflecton, maybe the bending of light. I still don't understand the details of bending light and reflections and all that. But I know at least that originally water is colourless. I've read somewhere that the feathers of birds also take their colour from light shining through them. But a Blue Jay always looks blue. Mallards' feathers change from green to blue to purple.
So many miracles to learn about. Thanks Matt for helping me to the next stage of trying to figure things out. And thanks for getting me back on line.
Wild thing.
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