![]() ![]() ![]() Nearing Christmas, maybe around solstice, the pattern gathers around light-gleaming colours of gold, green, red – firesides and indoor-coddled trees, laden with glittering reflection. ![]() I pick up another book, and see the pages ahead as another portal into the grass, water, trees, mountains, clouds the slippery cloak of the eel winding its way around me – delivering me into animal worlds.Īnd then, the season will turn. I want to take records, to ponder, to be a naturalist, a citizen scientist to look for the tiniest detail on a goldfinch’s wing the last glint of a dragonfly on a leaf the bloom of fungi in rotting wood.įor a short while, my reading turns almost wholly towards nature writing, natural history, landscape, sky. I want to be outside, or by the window – to be watching, noticing, swept up in the passing. I’ve noticed that around the autumn – September through to November – the excitement of the turning globe, the tightening drawstring of migration, the freefall of the trees – and the belt-loosening outbreath of the land as it settles down beneath its knee-blanket of frost – all turns me outward. Quartering the year with rolling colours of moods kaleidoscope changes that meld thoughts, like fragments of stained glass, into patterns – never exactly the same twice, but falling loosely into the same corner of the year same time, same place. There’s something I’ve noticed about my reading in recent years. ![]()
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