A Deep River Year 2017

Late last fall the older of our dogs had surgery to have her left eye removed. The problem seemed to start with a cataract, then became something far more serious. The eye became swollen and turned red. Eye drops were not enough. The only solution seemed to be to remove the offending orb. She is getting to be an old girl, gray around the muzzle and missing quite a few teeth. "Bug" has never been a pin-up girl, but her current state leaves ...her uglier than ever. 
 

Someone once suggested that it was a good thing to have an ugly dog in the family, because it's a reminder that love can come in all shapes and sizes. And Bug certainly is an illustration of that truth. She is love in dog flesh. As soon as I sit down, she is in my lap, sprawled out belly-up for affection. She has always slept in the bed with us, preferring to be under the covers where she can press herself against my wife's legs as she snores through the night. She and her brother Jake are our alarm system, though they pose no threat to visitors. Anyone coming through the door will find out at once the bouncing joy of their welcome.

Having only one eye with which to view the world seems not to be too great a handicap for Bug. She may miss a dog treat tossed in her direction if it's a little off-target on the wrong side. But she sill makes it up and down the stairs just fine, and she seems to think the world is just as beautiful on her early morning walk. This homely creature seems to be winking now, as if she knows a wonderful secret. I smile, because the secret is that she certainly makes my world a little more lovely, even with one-eye.


One-Eyed Dog


Rolling in the brown grass
of a wintered field,
my one-eyed dog
seems oblivious of the fact
that she is missing half of the world
spread out in front of her.
She sniffs the breeze,
her pug nose alert for a passing dog,
or the scent of supper drifting
from a nearby kitchen.
A child runs up, asks if it is all right
to scratch her ears,
and at once the dog's tongue greets her
with unshackled delight.
We could feel sorry for this poor creature,
lament her disfiguring loss.
But I would be glad to see the world
as well with two eyes
as she seems to see with one.
There is always enough light
to see with the heart.

A Deep River Year

Every year we look forward to the January thaw. This is it. Today it is nearly 50 degrees, and this morning a few misguided birds were already starting to sing their Spring song. This is a mistake, though a delightful one. There are still ten days or so in this month, and February still lies ahead, and March, too. There is plenty of winter coming. But there is something healing about a thaw in this barren time. The earth is soft underfoot..., and I walk slowly through the colorless yard, and make a loop around the garden. Dead vines hang limply on the wire fence, and a shovel stands forlornly in the mud, where I left it in December as I tried to dislodge a few remaining turnips. But I don't see dead plants; I see green sprouts, golden sunflowers, fat tomatoes in there.

Already I am pawing through the seed catalogs, dreaming about summer. This is winter's best gift. This petulant time often leaves us with short tempers, weariness, and even despair. There are seasons like this in our lives, too, where the going is hard and the darkness lasts too long. We can use a thaw, just about then, where we can feel something soft under our feet, something like a bird song in our heart. The winter may endure, but there are seeds to order.


Winter Thaw


In the wreck of a garden
a shovel leans wearily,
long frozen in the mud
where turnips may still lie buried.
I will pull my spade from the mud
of this January thaw,
and feel in the dirt for some
tender, white root
that has endured the cold
of this aching season.
I have sneezed and coughed
my way to this gifted day,
and I am ready for whatever
these lean and bitter weeks may hold.
An old farmer said that winter
makes the turnips sweeter.
I hope that works for all of us,
too.

A Deep River Year 2017

Last weekend we felt the brunt of the first major snowstorm of the season. It was like being inside a snow globe, a fire in the hearth, soup on the stove, and a new snow blower in the garage. The world was silent, muffled by the blowing snow, and all was well until it was time to take the dogs for their afternoon walk. They preferred to get back inside as quickly as possible.


In a small room at the local hospital, on the Hospice floor, a different kind of silence filled the space. It was the quiet of farewell, the long vigil, the leave-taking that seemed to go on so very long. Outside the window the great snowstorm swirled, wrapping the city in its colorless cape. A few red taillights brighten the dusky, snow-filled streets, late travelers heading home.


Hospice, Snowstorm


Where is she,
 the one who waits for the kind angel
 to carry her away?
 She lies in a strange bed,
 tended by those who have loved her
 on sweeter days.
 They lean over, touching her gently,
 bending to offer a parting kiss,
 whispering prayers and promises
 with a frail hope that she may hear.
 Outside the window a great snow falls,
 silencing the city below.
 The red lights of cars decorate streets
 that are filling with white,
 all going home to a warm place,
 where love waits.
 Perhaps in the wildness of snow
 we seek passage, too,
 with her,
 amid this cold and darkness
 where we are all lifted on bright winter wings
 to home, to safety, to spring.


--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year 2017

There are reasons to leave these northern places in winter: black ice on wet streets, plagues of flu and bouts of headcolds, snow by the backdoor that requires a shovel and a decent back, the rumble of furnaces on cold mornings, the long nights and the colorless days. But there are a few reasons to stay around. There is unpredictable beauty in this barren time, and lovely surprises.

 This early morning, just past dawn, I was filling our bird feeders when I heard a ruckus coming from the front of the house. Across the street, in a large maple, a flock of blackbirds--starlings and grackles--were celebrating the day. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. I woke my wife and she came flying outside in her nightgown, camera in hand, just it time to see this huge cloud of birds erupt into the sky and head north. We piled into the car in pursuit, and found them again blocks away. It seems that they gather in enormous flocks like this in January, huddling together at night for warmth and leading each other to any sources of food that might be available. And that big of a flock certainly helps to scare off a singular predator that might have a hankering for bird.

 Little do they know that they also brightened a drab, dismal morning with their wild wings and raucous song.


A Gathering of Blackbirds


We awaken
 to a cacophony of voices,
 the rattle and cry
 of hundreds, thousands
 of blackbirds,
 filling a tall maple like ebony leaves
 fluttering against a gray sky.
 This heavenly host
 has no angelic message,
 no glory to blind us.
 But when suddenly they fly,
 a cataract of feathers
 rising as one great being
 moving in a swirling cloud,
 we race to the car
 and follow them.
 They are mystery, even joy,
 in this bleak midwinter,
 congregating against the cold,
 a sign to all of us,
 aliens in this winter land,
 that we will survive—
that we are always better—
together.


--Timothy Haut, January, 2017