Day 331

Winter Goldenrod.

This plant and goldfinches are misnamed in winter, when they both go dun-brown and grey. 

I went for a long ramble through all the meadows today with the black dog, clambering over stone walls, blundering through the trip-wires of bittersweet, and getting hooked by buckthorn tendrils, so that my coat has another few little nicks in it, where the small white down feathers sneak out at times.

The sun shone sharply on the bare branches, and in the little Milkweed glade the shining silky seeds hung precariously on their pods, looking for the perfect gust on which to fly away.

Or floated diaphanously on the currents of air while others decorated the stark stalks of what is left of the the Mullein plants.

Everywhere I saw the little stars threaded through dusky leaves and dried-out stems.

 I was going to run this afternoon but you have to do it in the morning, first thing, otherwise the world takes over and there is suddenly no more time, and it's dark.

Another big social occasion today, with people I love, all from my own country, speaking a familiar language, with a shared history.  Sitting around the big table we laugh and shout and eat and argue and tell our stories, while the children play quietly downstairs.

When the children start rushing about, late in the evening, parents begin to collect their coats, round up their progeny, and the lovely dinner is over, everyone gives kisses and hugs until we meet again, and Tim and I get into our quiet car with no little children to calm down, no one to carry out of the car, fast asleep, when we have arrived home, just ourselves.

We arrive home to an empty house, into which our boys burst like forces of nature a few minutes later, the quiet shattered, our hearts happy, as we stand with our backs to the woodstove, discussing the movie they have just seen.

Another little vase of flowers for our hostess tonight.  A rather blurry photograph.