At Camp. There is a slight drizzle this morning, like a melody on the forest canopy. The drops make a pleasant sound, like an articulation made by some amiable mythic god. The irregular tempo of the rain on the the red maples invite me to listen carefully as if mother nature had something she wished for me to hear. I try to listen.
As I pay attention to the sounds I am aware of the cascading trill of a robin, whose vociferous insistence is surely a defense of his territory. His call is pleasant with a hint of stridency. As I once read this is a sign of a territorial imperative. His mate must certainly be near and listening to his demands. Other male robins should heed his warnings.They are truly his adversaries.
The drizzle is intermittent. I suppose it would be reductive to say that mother nature was in control, as what nature does is rather chaotic and unpredictable. Although the turn of the seasons seem to be a reliable predictor of nature’s patterns this really seems to be as much happenstance as a anything else. In case you live in a bubble it is plain that weather patterns are changing and the end of quasi-predictability may be at hand--although the climate deniers are rampant. I live with an apprehension of the future of the human species. It makes me sigh.
I suppose the drizzle also makes me melancholic but I will shake off this blase mood when the sun comes out. At least I hope so--but only time will tell.
Till next time.
Hilton Everett Moore