The December slate has been largely empty here at Hoot Owl Karma,
lens and pen neglected, as the hustle and bustle of the Holidays, year-end activities at work, and the worst colds we've had in years conspired to sap the season of some of its joy.
Fortunately for us, family and friends rode to the rescue.
Sharing stories and laughter and lots of love, tolerating the coughing and sneezing and sighing, and serving up piping hot bowls of chicken and rice soup at just the right time, together we've negated the nasties and made more memories and lived to tell the tale.
So, in spite of a lingering sniffle and cough, we're back in the saddle with a salute to the blues of December.
Great blue heron, hunter true,
stalks the shallows of deepest blue,
stained by the heaven's ephemeral hue.
Morning wings mount to the sky,
leaving behind a magical shimmer;
green-clad pines, bright blue skies,
and crystal clear water becomes a mirror.
Turn from the pond,
where Deep River's surging banks give rise to barkless giants;
silky skinned sycamores thrust ivory limbs from lowly earth high into the blue,
a crescendo of color to quell the raging of the stream,
clearing space for birdsong,
as mockingird mounts to the mic
of the budding sweet gum branch,
belting out the blues of December.
And if you pay close attention
to the melancholy refrain,
you're sure to catch a hint,
the slightest tremor,
like a brief glimpse of crimson among the briars and the vines,
you're sure to hear the echo,
of the sweet, sweet breath of spring.