It is very still here on our little mountain today. The birds are not so talkative, but I did hear the little brown wren that lives in the hedge row along the picket fence this morning. She was scolding Ling Ling who was nearby searching for blades of grass to chew. Ling Ling was very shy and wouldn't go outside when we first brought her home. Now, we can't keep her in. Her favorite spot is under the bird feeder. She must think that the birds can't see her. She crouches there with her tail lashing back and forth, chattering to herself about how much she would love to have birdy for dinner. She is a terrible hunter, thank goodness. The only thing she has ever caught is a tiny shrew. I saved it.
We took a ride the other day to visit my Dad in the nursing home. It was a beautiful, sunny day. It is a lovely ride down country roads through a little valley dotted with old farms.
But as we travelled further and further into the valley, we could see a little haze starting to form along the hillsides.
Soon we were leaving the beautiful sunshine behind. We were enveloped in fog. Everything turned surreal.
Bare branches silhouetted against the fog have a beauty of their own.
Like lovely etchings against a gray canvas. Works of art that only nature can create.
A reflection of my Father's life now. Solitary silhouette in a foggy mind. Alzheimer's.
He doesn't know me any more. He is trapped in the fog. But I know him. I know what a good Father he was. Generous, hardworking, always looking on the bright side.
And as we leave after reminding him of our love and hoping somewhere inside he understands, we drive back through the valley, out of the fog.
Past the old farms.
Glancing back to see that the Angels are standing watch.