A French frog's thoughts on the Skagit river. American frogs welcome to read if they can handle my croaking poorly in their language...
Sunday, January 02, 2011
The pond knows when it's time to stay still, and chill The mud knows when it's time to gather itself, and wait The grass knows when to fossilize in sheets of blue ice, turned into white lace where the sun has broken through Sharp, ciseled cracks. The disheveled grasses have given up combing. That was the raw, comforting stillness found this crisp afternoon,in the naked beauty of the winter.