time leaves its mark on both old firewood and new tallied by seasons of delicate pencil-growth and metered by the gnomon shadow of the falling axe
time's passage is guided by the sweeping curve of planets and whole galaxies of one cat, nine lives everything turning beneath the circle of the sky
Photo: “Sadie on the Woodpile” taken in Ronan, Montana in summer 2003. My friend, Juanita Small Salmon, and her husband Stephen, run a sweat house one evening each week on their property. Stephen has just brought down a load of new firewood, used to heat the rocks, and stacked it against the sweathouse wall. I liked the patterns the ends of the logs made, and at first I didn’t even see Sadie on top, curled up in a ball as she was, until she raised her face to watch me take her picture.
The Cloud Messenger (Meghadūta) is a lyric poem by the respected Indian poet, Kālidāsa. The poem centers around a yaksa in exile. Longing for his beloved, waiting for him on a Himalayan mountain, he asks a cloud to take a message to her. The sights he tells the cloud it will see on its way make up most of the poem.
The idea of recording observations appeals to me. I thought The Cloud Messenger was the perfect title for a blog about the journey that we all make as we move through our days.
I'm a baby boomer who grew up dancing in the streets of Detroit during the classic Motown years, lived beside the Rocky Mountains for many years, now retired and living (and writing full time) in S. Ontario. I have one blog for rock 'n' roll oldies, and one for nature, poetry and life along the Lake.