Asakiyume mita

Where I am, at this time of year it's the moss that comes back to life first, intense green. It sends up the thinnest straight green things--they look like thin, tiny blades of grass but really they're called setae: they're the stalks for the moss's spore cases, which form on the ends. These then ripen and, when they're ready, they release their spores.

Yesterday I was in the woods, and I came to a big puddle, and by the puddle was a rock, and on the rock was a quantity of moss. This moss:



See how the setae aren't thin green things anymore? Now they're red-brown, and they have heads on them.

I brushed my hand across them and to my surprise and delight, released CLOUDS OF GREEN SMOKE. Not tiny little wisps: a billowing cloud, thick. Like a special effect, like being on another planet. I did it again, and more came out, powerfully green, hazy, drifting. Like when you kick an old puffball mushroom and you get a gray-brown mass of smoke--but this was green!

Magical. A very Annihiliation-shimmer sort of moment.

Today's sleet and rain has broken the spell that hid the true nature of our driveway. In reality, it is a whale shark.

Sorry we've been parking on top of you, whale shark!

It's cold out today. I grabbed my car key in my bare hand after driving a brief way in the cold car, and it *stung* my hand. I felt like I'd been bitten or burned--I guess because the key was so cold? But I've never felt cold metal like that before. Maybe I always have gloves or mittens on? But suddenly I understood exactly what it must be like to be one of the fairy folk and touch cold iron.

Is it a human person or a fairy being, imprisoned behind the leaf-vein bars? What was the crime, or were they falsely accused? When and how will they be freed, or will they free themselves?

Because yesterday and last night were unseasonably cold but the air was warmer this morning, there was mist everywhere when I went out.

Everywhere was gauzy.





Up the street, down the street--ethereal





It seems that otherworldly dancers passed through, too, leaving behind their handkerchiefs, as they often do, on lawns, beside paths, and in the woods:

Missy went walking
On the fairy path one day
And this alone remains
After she was spirited away

I have a plan: I am going to grow a mangrove. You can do it! I checked, and the Internet said yes. First step is to get the seed to sprout. It's possible this seed won't germinate as (a) I picked it (rather than it falling of its own accord--in other words, it may not be ripe yet) and (b) the seeds mustn't be allowed to dry out, and it might have, between the time I picked it and the time I hit upon this plan. But I'm hopeful. And if this seed doesn't work, I'll get another one. Somehow. I think you can order them.



And here is a lawn that is crying out for a thyme pun (I lost track of the thyme... I had all the thyme in the world... )

From a distance



Up close, with bonus clover



And lastly, during my travels this weekend, I saw mermen reclining at ease, while nearby children frolicked. Here is one of them:

I had to drive the healing angel in to school this morning, and on the way, we cross railroad tracks. There's a sign warning you you're coming to a railroad crossing, and I thought, yes, trains cross here. Watch out!

But what if it were a something-else crossing. I know you can get signs for deer crossings or moose crossings or turtle crossings. Those creatures don't cross on a schedule the way trains do, though. They're more unpredictable. No flashing red lights or bells when they're coming.

Whereas, if you had a crossing of the Wild Hunt from elsewhere, I just *bet* you'd get flashing lights or bells.

Though they probably wouldn't cross on a schedule, either. Or would they? Always at midnight, maybe? Or just after sundown in the twilight glow?

How about a memory crossing, when the stored-up memories of the area cross by. Haywains for instance, or Wampanoag hunting parties. Flocks of passenger pigeons.

Here's the view, by the way, at a different time of year, courtesy of Google Maps Street View:

What if when you journeyed, the road only appeared after you? I guess that's the case for explorers--they create paths behind them. So, snails and slugs are explorers.

... Also, when you see a slug's silvery path, you expect some amazingly lovely creature must have made it.

"And you'd be right," says a self-confident slug, maybe blushing a little that you should reach such a flattering conclusion.

shining trail


almost across the Great Hard Waste

Alongside the road and in the woods, the pine needles have dropped. Where the woods path goes through a stand of white pine, I met a grandmother and granddaughter raking up the fallen needles with small bamboo rakes. They were putting them in a long bag, like a cotton picker's sack. Remarkably, they were both wearing coats of exactly the same shade of copper-orange as the pine needles.

"Are you going to put the needles around blueberry bushes to make the soil more acid?" I asked. "Or are you making baskets? Or maybe you're planning a fragrant bonfire?"

"None of those: we're gathering these for felting," the grandmother said. "I didn't realize how much Bethie'd grown this past year--show the lady, Bethie."

Bethie stuck out an arm and I saw the skin on her bare wrist between the end of her coat sleeve and her hand.

"We're going to make you a bigger one, aren't we?"

Bethie nodded.

"Wow--I didn't know you could make felt out of pine needles," I said.

"Oh no? Well, you can, if you have the knack," the old woman said.

I looked more closely at her coat, and at Bethie's, and saw now that the rich, fuzzy orange fabric was decorated with geometric starbursts of pine needle embroidery--a marvel. The grandmother caught my admiring eye and smiled.

A red-tailed hawk screamed, and for some reason that put me in mind of time passing. Work called.

"Well, good luck with the gathering and the project," I said. "The coats are amazing."

"Thank you," the grandmother said, returning to raking. "You have a nice day now." Bethie waved goodbye, and I continued on the woods path. I looked back once, but they were lost from sight.

Photo: "Carpet of Needles, Delamere, Cheshire," by Ian Helsby on Flickr