Here we are again, slouching towards the end of October, the wind cold, the fire flaring, a pumpkin and two squash arrayed along the windowsill. The sea is still–only the receding tide draws ripples back in the direction of the islands. Nevertheless, a storm approaches.
Pintails warble into the quiet air; then the sound of a rifle and its recoil. Hunting season again. I dress my doe-coloured dog in a rouge coat, pull on my gloves.
Last night the first deep freeze bends grasses leaves a skim of ice on the pond and in the centre of a sheltered cove. The grass is still green but the hills are ablaze with golden tamaracks, luminous against gathering grey clouds.
I try and do not try to draw climactic or political parallels. The world bestows splendour upon us and we barely respond, as if such gifts are our due, as if nature needed nothing from us, neither nurture nor gratitude.
As if we too were not the progeny of trees, the kindred blood of all that breathes.
Pictures were taken in West Quoddy Bay, Nova Scotia, towards the end of October 2018.
The last line cites from Iranian poet and filmmaker, Farugh Farrokhzad’s extraordinary poem, “It is only the voice that remains.” “I am of the progeny of trees,” she writes there, “the voice of the…desire of water to flow…” “Do you know the kindred blood of the flowers?”