FootprintsintheWind.com

Outside my window: beauty. All the tree, right down to the smallest twiglet, encased in clear silver. All the trees turned over and dipped in liquid instantly drying to crystal, then planted back but maybe not where they were. A greeting, a welcoming to a new year!

:- Doug.

Michael Pollan writes that the tulips in some sense owned their humans. A truer sense may be some partaking verb—playing, dancing, chorale-ing. Both are changed, bruised: in this the deeper conversation.

:- Doug.

The conversation is at least in part not with any of us; rather with the ongoing. Elders becoming ancestors touching babes becoming seven year olds. . . .

:- Doug.

Leave open to generations—a possibility—of speaking back, of speaking forward.

:- Doug.

What beings already communicate among generations?
—flowers through bees
—corn, potatoes, apples through human meddling
—us with grandchildren
—bees with flowers and their colors
—burrs by way of foxes
—eggs by way of chickens
—hopscotch by way of children of a certain age

:- Doug.

Every breath you take
you’re sending a message
to generations

:- Doug.