Friday, May 11, 2018

Red Trillium

"Red Trillium, Family of Three"
24"x18" oil on canvas

I found these beauties growing at Roberts Farm Preserve in Norway, Maine.

Thursday, May 3, 2018

New Home

We've moved into a new home. It's beautiful. Like living in a ski lodge. Open and friendly, fun and peaceful. I can look out through huge windows at the sky and tree tops. Heaven.

A male bluebird has taken to admiring himself, or facing down a beautiful rival, in the reflection outside our kitchen window. Sometimes he flutters right in front of it, like he's looking me straight in the eyes. I see his mate sometimes, too. She's much shyer.

Spring Fever

It’s a wondrous night. The moon is full and framed by branches pregnant with fat buds. A perfect balance of stars and clouds, orange and mauve in the moonrise. There’s a warm gusty wind rustling and bending the pines. And it’s so bright, almost as bright as day, without all the colors. I get the sense that everything around me is awake. It’s like a swell of movement surging from the darkness between the trees. No one out there will sleep tonight. I hear yowling and growling coming from the hedgerow. Songbirds are chirping and trilling and hopping from branch to branch. Woodcock are performing noisy mating rituals in the field. The spring air carries a mysterious sweetness – intriguing, almost irresistible. The primal part of me inhales deeply, wishing to follow that damp sweetness wherever it leads. To slip into the woods and go wild. Rage and run – shake off the long cold winter in a fevered, frenzied prowl. Come home at dawn, leaves and twigs in my hair, panting and muddy, eyes flashing.
The shadows in a cloud passing above the moon form, in perfect puffy letters, “NAY”. I imagine it’s a message from the heavens and try to figure out which question in my life it might be the answer to. The wind breaks the cloud into squarish bits, like cracked mud at the bottom of a dried stream. Every time I’m about to turn and go home I hear a new sound in the woods and the breeze rises and the pines rustle and bend again and the clouds streak and puff and new stars twinkle into view. I won’t rush it. This is a night to be savored.

~Becky Robbins