I've been out walking; and listening; and looking skyward -- up through the trees, into the clear blue sky. And what happened there were three ravens, flying at once, over the top of me. And when the Raven flies, I always stop, quiet in my step, because there's a character about that bird in flight that is unlike any other. It's the sound. But today, there was something different in that sound -- arching, banking, rushing side-bound, wings vertical, pointing up and down, sky and earth, there...

This morning, it's profoundly quiet. Off, some miles from here, I can hear the distant rumbling of a freighter, its deep engines humming; and even now, that is fading. Otherwise, there is the soft murmur of the lightest rippling, a sussurant touch of water touching the shoreline. And beyond that, there is silence. I feel a kind of joy, there, in the profundity -- the quiet, the alone, the quietude in merely listening, slowing far down and contemplating the absence of recognizable sound. And I...

In that exploration, that movement to see, I ponder what I've seen, what I've missed, what I've scene, what I've mist. In my experience -- it's that moment of attention -- what might be sensed in the light, the energy of the encounter, the momentum of vibration. How awake am I -- how attentive, to the now, this instance -- the instant? I can only offer this: I wonder about what is scene, and what is not -- seen? I contemplate the knowing that is there -- what you've touched, that is now...

I reach back, I go back, in recollection. I recall: Notes on a ritual: When I think back, on that day when my father called, to tell me that Matt had been killed - I was standing on the island, looking out in the morning light, to a grouping of stones that stand near my house on the island. I go back. It was just after 7.00am. Now, I live in fear of calls like that, early morning and unexpected rings, the reign of sadness from afar. And it was striking, listening to my father, telling me that...

9. every journey is yet anouther spiral, in the spin of living, yet this whorl keeps turning and we stride inside the whirl of this ever outer arc, that turns in, turns out, unfolding a reel of beauty that is the real explication: that string which is the circle, never finished, that turns outwardly to the opening of the new, this day, the start of our mutual run, at the opening of the year. Beauty, found: hope, new -- 2009. all the best, to you. And yours....

A Love of Wild Trees, the last of the series Meditations on the tree, that is not a tree... And this is the tenth in a series, of ten, from https://tim.girvin.com/Entries/index.php. A pine grove | Decatur Island When I contemplate this series, writing about trees, ten times -- and the reflections that lie there: the time, the places, the travels -- there is one tree that is absent, and comes forth to my mind, and my memory, now. The sense of the grown grove is deep in memory -- but what grove,...

what rises, will fall. as you might know, now, my computer was stolen in the office, yesterday. People all around. In, there, out. Some people saw this person, connected and tried to escort him away -- but he seemed to know a lot about me -- card in hand, P&G connection, etc. But what he did seem to gather was more about what was lying around, and how quickly to improvise a story based on what he found. A good skill, I suppose, that quick-on-your-feet savvy.... But, very bad for me. Days...