The Wind Carries the Witches

Blowing the last few leaves from the skeletal trees. 

[Title courtesy of Christian Bauman]

Trees Sway, Walking in the Wind is Difficult

A windstorm swept across the hill country the other night, leading me to prowl the yard listening to each tree. My youngest child tells me he knows all their sounds in the wind; the high whistle made by the desert willows, the low moans from the Texas mulberry. 

When it became too strong, I hid in a dark alcove and made this recording. Faint sounds of wild geese navigating the storm. 

Title is from the Beaufort wind scale, 7. Moderate gale. 

Between Aldebaran and Pleiades

Thursday, 7:30 PM. 68 degrees, winds SSE at 9. The sky is clear, and all is quiet except for the windchimes in the trees. I'm standing under the garden archway, which is a little worse for wear after the recent freeze. I have one hand on the fence, balancing. I am keeping watch. For what? Oh, I don't know. Something I can't see yet, for this is always the way. You don't see it until it arrives. 

Through the branches of the juniper tree, I see a bright light in the northern sky. A plane heading south. It's distant yet, and I can hear no sound, only see the light growing larger as it approaches. Soon I can see that even though the sky looks clear, there must be a layer of mist higher up, as the lights from the plane make a halo as it comes. I lean on the fence and watch it flying, and for a moment everything feels so cozy, just the juniper and the plane and me. 

In a few more seconds I can hear the engine's hum, and the plane flies low overhead, cutting a path between Aldebaran and Pleiades. Soon it is out of sight, and now it's just me and the juniper, and the high layer of mist that I know is there but can no longer see. I wait a moment, and then it is time for me to go, too. 

Nothing has changed, but everything has changed. As ever. As always. 

The Remnants and Revenants of the Great Black Swamp

"Here, she will be trapped in her own illusion, because everything in the woods is exactly as it seems."

Angela Carter ~ the Erl-King

Haunting the remnants of the Great Black Swamp with my collaborator and compatriot, Mere Pseud. 

Sommersonnenwende

The day of the summer solstice.

Portents

Driving down to the shop tonight, I saw a screech owl drop to the ground from the trees. I slowed to look at it; It turned and raised its wings and stared.

Oh, I know they live around here, I hear their eerie trills in the woods, but they are rarely seen. To see an owl is rife with portents. It causes a shiver down the spine. It's an uneasy feeling to be caught in the gaze of those predatory eyes.

But I've had them swoop over my head before and hoot outside my window, and nothing in particular came of it. Regardless, superstition is not so easy to dismiss. I had a  dream once, years before I came back here, about seeing owls in that self-same creek.

I suppose if there is a meaning to be drawn from this, it's a reminder to be alert and aware. Polish your aura, cast out your demons and hope the fates are kind.

Not Afraid Of You

I always did love those hidden picture puzzles a child.

In the Evening

Evening was coming on when I waked down the road to look at the mountain laurels. The blossoms have finally arrived in full force. 

The proper name of the tree is actually Texas mountain laurel, 

Dermatophyllum secundiflorum, otherwise known as Texas mescalbean, frijolito or frijolillo.

There must be a dozen trees growing wild on this street alone. Their grape soda scent hangs heavy in the air.  The effect seems slightly surreal to me, and indeed, it's said that Native Americans used their seeds as a hallucinogen.

As a child I was intrigued by the red seeds that littered the rocky ground and took a lick of one. It made  me feel very strange. Mind you, I wouldn't do that today. Apparently all parts of the plant are quite toxic.

The color is lovely, though. Shades of twilight in a flower.

As though Of Hemlock Had I Drunk

During a walk in the woods, I came across masses of what appeared to be hemlock, although closer examination shows it might actually be wild parsnip. I wasn't willing to run any tests to find out.

"As though of parsnips had I drunk" doesn't sound quite as poetic, though.

And here are these trees, just because I thought they looked nice.

Solstice Trees

In honor of the Winter Solstice, some Wintry trees.

December 4 2011

Other photos from our cemetery ramble:

It was necessary to go farther afield in order to take more pictures this weekend, hence the long, cold walk in the lightless afternoon.

My companion and I kept to the old section, where the dead had been buried at least a hundred years. Partly out of respect for the more recently dead, as well as to visit those whose graves had likely not had a visit in many years. We brought a wisk broom to sweep away leaves and pulled weeds that were overgrowing some of the old stones. It was the least I could do, if I was going to

come into their place for my own purposes.

While there was a proliferation of cenotaphs and Woodman of the World tree stones, there was a notable lack of angels in the old cemetery. I'm unsure why, as the modern section is full of them. The angel stone above was one of very few. It belongs to the grave of a 14 year old girl.

It was a relief to make our way out of the newer section into the old - the new section is rather more eerie than the old, contrary to the way it would seem to be. Graveyards can be "noisy" places for me, full of desperate-feeling energy and buzzing whispers. Like dozens of half-heard people clamoring for your attention at once. No, don't ask me to explain why. I make no claims for or against the existence of ghosts (or anything else, for that matter). I only know that strange things happen to me there, and I'm not the only one, either. It's part of the uneasiness about this town, a feeling that the dead can't rest.

But the old section is mostly quiet, as if the dead are finally at rest after many years.

At The Cemetery Gate

Yesterday I spent the afternoon at the cemetery - it being that sort of gray, gloomy day that compels one to hang about the cemetery, you know.

At the gate, a black plastic bag was caught in this tree's branches. It rattled in the wind like some hapless spirit. It seemed eerie, somehow.

The View From The Garden Ground

While normally I don't like to do too much photo editing, I couldn't resist that lovely shade of blue. ;)

Pareidolia

Can you see the faces and dancing figure in the wood?