Greeting the morning

The Scottish sceptical philosopher David Hume tells us that our sense that night follows day is slightly better than a suspicion, but falls fall short of certainty, being merely customary.

Be that as it may, we are presented daily with a sunrise in the east, enough to make even dishwashing enjoyble.

At the very least a cloudy sky brightens somewhat--if we are lucky the pea soup thins to a dappled grey.

Image result for dappled gray horse in the morning

Sometimes we are treated to an admixture of pink--a sailor's warning--meaning you'd be setting sail into the wind, if you lived in a port city and were planning to embark by sea.

Image result for famous sunrise painting

Other times we might even risk greeting the morning--or even greeting every moment, in the way the sun is prodigal, returning, discovering, finding us, every one.

Image result for stonehenge summer solstice

Sometime, if you are extra brave, try baying at the moon and bidding good morning to a pack of wolves, who will be just as startled as you are.

Or just turn on some music to start your day.

Comments

Animals and aliens

When you think of Orwell's Animal Farm , you get stuck on the idea of some being more equal than others. But world peace, galactic harmony, the celebration of diversity and the active practice of inclusion are all achieved in science fiction by casting minorities in the role of animals and aliens. Star Trek comes to mind in this regard, where even hippies were disposed of, Federation style, as sensitive dissenting aliens, not forgetting Spock with his pointy ears! And then there were Wookiees, still man's best friend. Viewing animals as humans--anthropomorphizing--or treating different races as aliens, all of this is shape shifting. This shape is my shade, there where I used to stand--that's Steely Dan.

Of course she's not a true red

As the parent of a "ginger", and having red heads on both sides of the family, and having married into two Irish families, I know first hand that ginger covers the whole spectrum from strawberry blonde (to my way of thinking a classic ginger!), to orange (carrot tops), to a real rust red (what my father in law would call a true red). When Pat Todkill first set eyes on his granddaughter, he remarked, "Of course, she's not a true red". For one thing, Emily the Elder lacked freckles on her face and upper body. For another, she really was and is a strawberry blonde. A further observation. Even people with the raven blackest hair have rust red lights--caveman red, soot covered ochre if you like. Woolly mammoth red. Sometimes it takes just the right light to pick out the smoldering ember, but beard and eyebrows tend to incorporate the tell tale ginger strain, like chili pepper in a spice jar of mixed pepper corns. And, of course, brunette...

The city mover beat me to the chicory this evening maybe if I had passed by earlier I could have caught a glimpse of them but they will rise Phoenix like from the close cropped pile of grass and weed and present their brash and uneven beauty once again before the need for carpet and trimming loops of magic made by subterranean rug weavers is once again mandated and duly executed by the city crew in the burnt orange cabs of their ride along mowers browning the backs of their hands and letting the heat weather beat their faces to match the cabs and fulfill some unspoken contract between landscaping and maintenance and the gods of Chance Fortune as ever favouring the bold there will be other routs of the mover before the Summer is done and more rain hopefully if I can contain the fear of thunderheads building and more returns of visible biodiversity Nature never surrenders unconditionally but like a lover choosing her battl...

Search This Blog