Wake
up and post some pics!
16
February 05: After
dreaming away most of this winter, and chasing after other
rainbows, I'm trying to catch up on some posting.
This
has been a snowy winter but of a sort to clash with our available
times for outings. Still, I have pix from a visit to the empty
Erie Canal at Albion in January, a pic of the
Skipper, and some pix from yesterday and
today of the Lake Erie shore at Dunkirk.
Do
I wake or sleep?
I wake. And post.
Enjoy!
The
canal colors are blue and gold, something like high school
colors. State barges and boats winter at a dock in Albion. |
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A
chaotic scene of barge and liftbridge, one after the other,
at Albion. |
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Meanwhile,
the Skipper, who is 13 now, opens her eyes for a moment.
Our old gal spends most of her time sleeping anymore.
Do I wake or sleep? Is it time for snacks? Where are those
big, soft toys that bring me food? |
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And
yet meanwhile, yet again, we took a walk with some friends
during a ministers' retreat in Dunkirk on Lake Erie, yesterday
and today. The weather started out sunny and in the 50s,
then moved back to cold and snow this morning. |
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Docks
at Dunkirk dream of summer days. |
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There
were three work boats among the empty slips at Dunkirk.
No dreamers, these, but boats bristling with intention
for any season. |
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Sometimes
the dream and the reality offer no seams with which to
anchor self in one or the other. |
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Change
the view some, and there really is no change. Still no
seams. |
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Colleagues
wander on the breakwall at Dunkirk. |
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Chongo
dreams of Mary. Does he know his name, written on a lakeside
rock in the breakwall, means monkey in
Spanish? |
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Pictures
of pictures on the breakwall. |
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One
dock segment, dreaming of open water, found the reeds
instead. |
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Overnight,
the cold and snow returned, and in the light of this morning,
the same scene at the breakwater took on a dreamlike quality. |
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Puffin-like
waterbird in the mist and snow. |
|
| And
then there were two. |
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Seams
again. |
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Winter
quarters under the dock. |
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Light
and shadow -- form and line. |
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Workboat's
solidity fades in the snowy light. |
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Imposing
outline of nearby coal-fired power-generating plant loses
-- loosens -- its edges in the mist at Dunkirk. |
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And
then home again with its snow, cold, and frost-flocked
privet hedge. The poet Robert Frost wrote somewhere that
going home means coming to our senses.
Yes. |
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