Rain, rain: The pretty bits left behind (21 photos)
Though I have complained about this current swell of rainstorms, what it does to the landscape of the Escape never fails to amaze me, particularly in the spring when the flora is bright and the old, soaked wood is caked with fungus. Even the ground has its charms for its stones having been so freshly washed.
I love watching any few of our dogs walking the drive with me and sniffing out all the little things that emerged with the storms, the paws sploshing and craunching over the drowned gravel. I love to duck down and scoot close to see the reflections in the waterdrops and depth of the wood grain, discern the million shades of green and russet, violet and yellow, and the puffy nodes, bold folds and standards, the capepillar-chewed blade edge, the hinting bud and drooping remnant.
I have to remember to stop and look--and look closely, listen intently, while I can and while they're there, because they won't always be.
In my beginning is my end. In succession Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth Which is already flesh, fur, and faeces, Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf. Houses live and die: there is a time for building And a time for living and for generation And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto. In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls Across the open field, leaving the deep lane Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon, Where you lean against a bank while a van passes, And the deep lane insists on the direction Into the village, in the electric heat Hypnotized. In a warm haze the sultry light Is absorbed, not reflected, by grey stone. The dahlias sleep in the empty silence. Wait for the early owl.
T.S. Eliot, East Coker