Interlude
My squeaking boots kept occasionally reminding me of a frog, or a certain rumbling-buzzing something as the Spring tries to turn on.
A Retelling: January 18
It was moving towards dark in the forest. I walked to the boardwalk anyway. My squeaking boots kept occasionally reminding me of a frog, or a certain rumbling-buzzing something as the Spring tries to turn on. But not yet. Soon? Almost? Walking onto the boardwalk I can hear peepings of a Sparrow. I'm not good at discerning individual Sparrow species peeps. Yet. Probably a Song Sparrow. Peeping, and steady breeze, the volume of which always picks back up as I go forward on the boardwalk. I think there was one propeller plane. The water was high enough that it was running under the boardwalk even at this point. A current where there is not often one. Ducks laughing in the distance.
A Raptor I decided my identification of was a [Northern] Harrier, because of the tail held slim, maybe I was incorrect but it felt like a good guess. Drifting over to the right towards the [S.B] and disappearing into the trees. And then, a large almost-murmur of something. Could have been Starlings, could have been Blackbirds or Grackles, could have been Robins. Probably not Starlings.
...
I stood at the [Bridge] and faced out towards the [In.T.] and loved all the water I saw... Ripples on the top of the flat parts of the water. Increasing in speed, decreasing, shifting shapes. Deeply backlit woods. I stood and marinated in the concept of "beginning" and loved to see all of the open flat water, and absorbing that this beautiful big space was here, here, here, and is always here — full happy silence.
The Digest
From my journal
In my last newsletter, I briefly touched on my Omen Walk practice to divine for 2023. Afterwards I published some excerpts from my walk journal, and some thoughts on what it's like to work with and trust one's gut when divining.
On Omens ⟶
on collecting omens, rules of thumb for divination, and saying sooths / excerpts from my own omen walk
From my camera
I always sense a pinky-purple-ness to the evening light in the winter on this side of the solstice. I think it comes from the haze I always saw on campus in college in upstate New York.
When it rained and snowed at night, which was always, the streetlights and air reflected off all the awful orangey-pink brick every building was covered in. The architecture was so ugly, but if you turned your back from it, it would give the snow and sky a romantic pink cast.
Until the Leo Full Moon, friends. Stay healthy and cozy.
My latest photograph shared as of this writing is sugar in a bowl.
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