Sky is overcast, very
dark blue in the west. We had a dusting of snow Saturday night. The ice has gone out of the pond, water is running fiercely everywhere. Not all of our snow is gone yet.
The habit of pausing to make these notes opens the possibility for me to explore what I think. I am not much of a talker, so I seldom verbalize my thoughts in that fashion. How do I know what I think unless I think, unless I write down what I think. This habit permits that.
I find my notes here stay with me afterwards - not word for word, though I can take them word for word if I wish; but what I turn over in my mind here often surfaces later in some other form as well. An essay about place may follow a lot of thinking about place in these pages.
It is good to have a place to try the size of an idea. This is my place for that.
It is a crisp enough morning, right at the edge of frost. The reflection in the pond is absolutely still. The fabric of the eastern sky is back-lit, low. There is no wind.
North out of Fairwater, geese mend the sky. To the north, above Ripon, however, the sky remains torn open, blue showing through. The Great Mender will have to stitch that.
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