Notes In The Margin

A feather lands gently atop an earthen weir, its vanes and barbs dislodge a score of grains that trickle down the sloping face.

Those simple few beget a slew of others, jostling in their haste to carve an ever-widening fan that draws a host of others, indifferent to what they may foretell.   A drop follows in due course, swelling as the channel opens to admit the flood. Most cascades begin from such humble beginnings, giving faint hint of pent-up furies long held in check. But the tide may soon be loosed to carve an ever-widening fan that draws a host of others, indifferent to what they may foretell.   A drop follows in due course, swelling as the channel opens to admit the flood.

And then to carve an ever-widening fan that draws a host of others. A drop follows in due course, swelling as the channel opens to admit the flood. Most cascades begin from such humble beginnings, giving faint hint of pent-up furies long held in check. But the tide may soon be loosed.

The glen below lies dreaming, content in the ways of long habit, inured to the pending storm above,  starting as a caress on the cheek of air, the barest tremor underfoot.  So it has been.

And so it may be, a random feather, a few tumbling grains.  

At least a beginning.

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