Thanksgiving Daisy
Last night the south wind forced rain from the sky in thick drenching mists. Three times I tried to ride my bicycle home from the studio. Each time I was completely suckered by a lull in the storm. Within moments from pedaling out of the old warehouse I was soaked and nearly blinded by the wind driven rain. I turned my back to the storm retreating to the old loft. After the third attempt I hung my cycling clothes in front of a fan, drank a shot of Talisker and fell asleep. This morning the wind had moved to the north and the clouds were less corpulent. At dawn I pedaled south through the empty city towards the river bicycle path with the frozen gale mostly behind me and only a few bits of ice blowing at my back.
Birds of prey flew thick in the marshes. Pigeons mobbed into a solid lumpy mass on the power lines while the soggy grass lay flat under a blustery steel sky. The last yellow leaves quivered, dripping and beautiful on black trees. Geese huddled silently in the wind. This Thanksgiving morning the door to winter was wide open. I zoomed through the cold wet gray into my sleeping neighborhood, tires humming along frigid empty streets into my drive past the empty stalks of the dormant garden. There it was, alone, sticking out against all the muted greens and browns of rotting leaves. It's head pointing up into a merciless winter sky. Like the last soldier in some epic battle, a daisy now months out of season.
Thanksgiving Daisy
Last night the south wind forced rain from the sky in thick drenching mists. Three times I tried to ride my bicycle home from the studio. Each time I was completely suckered by a lull in the storm. Within moments from pedaling out of the old warehouse I was soaked and nearly blinded by the wind driven rain. I turned my back to the storm retreating to the old loft. After the third attempt I hung my cycling clothes in front of a fan, drank a shot of Talisker and fell asleep. This morning the wind had moved to the north and the clouds were less corpulent. At dawn I pedaled south through the empty city towards the river bicycle path with the frozen gale mostly behind me and only a few bits of ice blowing at my back.
Birds of prey flew thick in the marshes. Pigeons mobbed into a solid lumpy mass on the power lines while the soggy grass lay flat under a blustery steel sky. The last yellow leaves quivered, dripping and beautiful on black trees. Geese huddled silently in the wind. This Thanksgiving morning the door to winter was wide open. I zoomed through the cold wet gray into my sleeping neighborhood, tires humming along frigid empty streets into my drive past the empty stalks of the dormant garden. There it was, alone, sticking out against all the muted greens and browns of rotting leaves. It's head pointing up into a merciless winter sky. Like the last soldier in some epic battle, a daisy now months out of season.