by Tim Girvin | Oct 30, 2005 | Writings
For a long time, I’ve believed in whispering. Sometimes, in anything, a whisper is far more powerful than a shout. Near silence is better than volume. For in that moment, susurrus — that murmuring in quietude — can be captivating. Perhaps...
by Tim Girvin | Sep 10, 2005 | Writings
This morning the wind comes textured with flavor from the hillocks and tumbled stones below, as the tide recedes in the darker hours; it’s wildly tinctured with seaweed and salted decay, a light scenting of grass and dust, dirt; and there, in the last tasting, a...
by Tim Girvin | Aug 28, 2005 | Writings
For 10 years, I’d watched him; there’s been a white and black plumed Kingfisher, living in front of me; living: loud and large. Literally: in front, the cackling, chattering calls usually beginning early, ending late. I’d see him on a branch, hanging...
by Tim Girvin | Aug 21, 2005 | Writings
I’m looking out to nothing, in the far hours before dawn. And I hear the huffing of three otters, swimming. I can see, by moonlight, their triangles of passage in the water rippling, in triad. Off there, hearing another: hooting in strokes of three. Hoo hoo hoo...
by Tim Girvin | Jul 2, 2005 | Writings
The slightest wind ruffles the waves, which whisper: where… are you, where — in your going? Where now, do you wander? Or are you merely drifting, yet standing still, in that watchful sentience: the Watcher, sensing the shadows now, the light… Which...
