Went for a short walkabout after supper. Just wandering, looking up into the bare branches of the scorched trees tryiing to see new leaves. There were on a few. The ground was covered with weedy flowers, poison oak, thistle and a number of plants i didn't recognise and could identify if I had the inspiration to look them up. The distant mountain was clearly visible and a few clouds had come in late to cool the afternoon and make me wish I had on my sweatshirt. I walked down to the meadow. It is ringed with trees still alive and the big oak in themiddle lives on. The one Allan wrote a poem about; the one Frank said, It looks like you have found your place here. We had been reading Don juan. The grass was over a foot deep underneath it.
The barn site had grown a coat of little pink flowers which obscured the detritus of burned objects somewhat. I hoped eventrually for a masticator which would clear out the landing the logger used of the dead small trees and limbs and make it viable again for growning things. Right now it is bare.
I wandered back up to the house. The varied thrushes were singing to each other and I sat in the big chair to take a thorn out of my flip flops, listening to them. The clouds were golden peach and I turned the chair to better watch them slowly grow into orange and then melt into mauve and grey. The red jeep and white pickup that went out earlier drove by going back. I thought it was Dale and I imagined he was coming to check out the burn. I thought of telling him, 'Well, I've let go of the way it was." Sadness had permeated the walk, not a gut wrenching sadness, just a quiet, relaxed acceptance of "this is what is left" A cresent moon shone through the just opened leaves of the locust tree, and the day was done. The evening and night are our own. On the way in the house, I was heartened by the realization that writing and meditating are very similar activities. The attempt is to note what it is I am experiencing and so I came to write this down.