p e n c h a n t

one: to repel flies while working in the garden, tie lemon balm in your hair or rub it into your skin. I do this frequently, because I don’t like commercial sprays, and the buzzing and biting of flies is annoying

two: when creating a work of art, capture the essence of the idea or the subject, then stop—in this case, the greenery in the hair. to continue on to complete the face would have been fine, but it also would have changed the focus. once the art becomes more developed, it’s easy to forget the original inspiration. if I had gone on to create a full painting, I would have put the lower portion of the face in shadow

this is a visual journal sketch, drawn quickly because the garden was calling
ballpoint pen & acrylic on paper

It’s midnight, and down in the hollows come songs from the mud.

The blizzard of 2010. Fallen trees, havoc on the roads, extensive power outages. We hunkered down, feeding the wood stove, which was our only source of heat, until the sun returned. See the photos, here. The last snowfall of this magnitude in the DC area was over a 100 years ago.

The moon grinning at me like a Cheshire cat on a limb. Private joke, I guess.

(See enlargement for a better view.)

Color is everywhere. You can walk in it, breathe it in.

photo by Troy Howell

There are owls where I live. You can hear them at night, calling and chuckling among themselves. Some nights they sound like monkeys.

Once in a great while you hear them at day.

I was out in the garden a few weeks ago, poking around, when I heard one call. Just once. I can’t find the right mix of letters to describe the call besides the standard, “Whoooo.” But it was more fluff and purr than that. A sigh of contentment or resignation—I couldn’t tell which. I scanned the trees surrounding me. I looked and looked, wandered here and there. No owl.

Later, as I was outside on the deck, I saw it (him? her? My Audubon guide doesn’t give a distinction. I’ll say him). About a 100 feet off and 50 feet up, in a long-needle pine, in the sun. I got my field glasses out and zoomed in. He was looking my way, nonchalant. He yawned, blinked one eye, took a nap.

I began to call him, though feeble the call was. “Whoo, woo, hoo-hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo-o-o-o.” He opened an eye, closed it again. I kept calling. He took more naps. I thought it was unusual he was out sunning himself.

He suddenly dropped, straight out of sight, to catch a meal, I thought. But no: he swooped right in, just 25 feet away, to land in the old apple tree. He stayed for over two hours. I invited the 10-year-old neighbor boy to come see. I took pictures. I was able to get so close I could have touched him. We’re having the woods thinned near the pond, and his home might have been affected. I talked to him, soothingly, and left him sleeping in the apple tree and roamed the wooded area, but found no fallen hollow trees or any other signs of owl lodgings.

When I returned, at dusk, he was gone.

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Here he is. See also my other owl encounter, here.
For a literary, lyrical encounter, see the wonderful Owl Moon by Jane Yolen,
illustrated by John Schoenherr.

He prays preys before every meal.

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Once a year about this time a pink cloud grows and grows and hovers above our front yard.
It affects the light that comes in the windows, the feel of the air. It’s telling the creatures, of course, who love the scent and the sweet, “Come propagate me.” They do, lustily. Then the winds come and we have pink rain. After that, by summer, we have cherries. Then come the birds and squirrels.

And so it goes, year after year.

photo © 2009 by Troy Howell

and a crimson of cardinals burdens the birdfeeder, five crows—one with a hiccup
that follows its every caw—come harassing, the cat who wanted out wants in again,
both wood stoves, upstairs and down, are coughing and choking, and the ink in my
pen’s gone cold.

artwork is charcoal—the real stuff, right from the hearth—on charcoal paper

Too cold the air, the earth, the walk, the glass the ledge the stonework the cat on the stoop.

The starry sky.

The sparrow’s breath.

The homeless figure in the cardboard box. The man on the subway bench.

C-old. The word says it, onomatopoeically.

Cold feet.
Cold fish.
Cold sweat.

Cold sore.
Cold virus. Common cold.

Cold pack.
Cold cream.
Cold soup.
Cold bath.

Cold storage.

Cold fact.

Cold shoulder. Cold glance.
Cold-hearted. Cold heart.

Cold turkey.

Cold blue steel.
Cold fire.

Out cold.

Out in the cold.
Left out in the cold.

Come in from the cold.
The Spy Who Came In From The Cold.
Cold War.

Cold-blooded.
In Cold Blood.

“The love of many shall wax cold.”

Baby, It’s Cold Outside.

*

Too cold is this
To warm with Sun—
Too stiff to bended be,
To joint this Agate were a work—
Outstaring Masonry—

How went the Agile Kernel out
Contusion of the Husk
Nor Rip, nor wrinkle indicate
But just an Asterisk.

Emily Dickinson