The sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing. -- John Keats, "La Belle Dame sans Merci"
Above the morning chorus of finches, towhees, and red-wing blackbirds, one bird was making an emphatic statement, screeching out the same pattern over and over again.
It was bread day last Friday morning, and I was preparing the last loaves for Mildrith, the wood-fired oven.… Continue reading
The sky on Monday evening was hazy, smudged, colourless. There were no clouds and no promise of a “sailor’s delight.” You could barely see Stuart and Waldron Islands through the murk.
I stood knee-deep in the water on our little beach at the foot of the cliff. The tide was unusually high. Despite several days of scorching temperatures, the water was as icy as ever.… Continue reading
