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Tuesday, November 03, 2009

When to do it

Full moon rising at Stony Run

As memory of eight-to-five fades from my bones, I've come to find myself somewhat at odds with clocks.

There is one in the bedroom, one of those little black boxes with red numbers on its face. Can't see it without my glasses, unless I squint mightily. And they are usually in another room.

I look out windows to decide what to do, and when to do it. A certain amount of light, regardless of the weather, means Let Out The Poultry. A little more light may mean Put Something In The Frying Pan And Put It On The Woodstove. If there is rain, that may mean Prepare To Work Indoors. Or if sun, Look For Some Outside Clothes To Put On.

Yesterday was sunny, bright, warm, so much so that I wore my summer straw hat and open-toed sandals. I mulched garden paths, moved flat stones to create walkways in strategic spots that are muddy come winter, and repaired the power line out to the Scriptorium, a little writing house at the back edge of the farm.

I kept busy until the moon, at full, rolled over the hills to the east and looked in on our little valley.

A bit of dark says to me, Supper. A bit more says Chase In And Close Up The Poultry. When there is a full moon they resist. I tell them raccoons and coyotes like a full moon, too. Like teenagers; in one ear and out the other.

A bit more dark is Small Glass Of Wine And Practice Dulcimer.

Bed might be around nine o'clock.

And then I go haywire. I might wake up at any time, raring to go, and only the red eyes of the little clock, heavily squinted upon, tell me otherwise. My spirit is rebellious, and I want to be up and doing.

So, this morning I awoke, aware that Beloved was stirring and the clock assuring me it was 5:30 -- about when she gets up to begin her work day at the library downtown.

And, umm, I thought I might sing to her a bit. You know the tune:

Good morning to you
We work in a zoo
We all smell like monkeys
And look like them too!
I got a pillow in my face -- emphatically -- for my efforts, and it was then that the Mighty Squint let me know ...

... that I was serenading her at 3:30 a.m. ...
.

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