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[sanrico AT highdesert.com]

Gene -
I haven't seen any comments on this piece, but I think you deserve a thank-you
for sharing such a calming and lovely bit of writing, especially at the 
beginning
of what should be a season of contemplation and sharing. I'm keeping it in the
inbox, so that it appear periodically to lift my spirits! Much appreciated.
Thanks again -
Sandy

On Fri, 26 Nov 2004 08:06:34 -0700, Gene GeRue wrote:

> 
> THE RURAL LIFE
> 
> At the Edge of the Visible
> By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
> 
> Published: November 26, 2004
> 
> Darkness seems to collect at this time of year, as though it had trickled 
> downhill from late June's solstice into the sump of November. Fog settles 
> onto damp leaves in the woods - not Prufrock's yellow fog or the amber fog 
> of the suburbs, but a gray-white hanging mist that feels like the down or 
> underfur of some pervasive beast.
> 
> White birches line the slopes beyond the pasture as if they were there to 
> fence in the fog, to keep it from inundating the house in a weightless 
> avalanche. The day stays warm, but even at noon it feels as though dusk has 
> already set in. The chickens roost early. The horses linger by the gate, 
> ready for supper.
> 
> Usually I feel starved for light about now. But this year I've reveled in 
> these damp, dark November days. It's a kind of waking hibernation, I 
> suppose, a desire to live enclosed, for a while at least, in a world 
> defined by the vaporous edges of our small farm.
> 
> My ambition extends all the way to feeding the woodstove and sitting with 
> the Border terrier, Tavish, in my lap, which perfectly suits his ambitions. 
> The frenzy of the spring garden has long since faded. My plans to refence 
> the place, to make it sheep-proof, have been put on hold for another year. 
> We're just sitting around waiting for the ground to freeze.
> 
> This is not how it's supposed to be, I know. I keep an endless mental list 
> of the things that need to be done. But when a gray day comes, when the 
> horses stand over their hay as though there were all the time in the world 
> to eat it, one of the things that needs to be done is to sit still.
> 
> The ducks and geese are especially good at that. They come out of their 
> yard in a rush in the mornings and forage ravenously across the pastures 
> and into the garden debris. But an hour or two later they lie quietly on 
> the lawn, like ships on a green sea, some gazing intently at the world 
> around them, some with their heads tucked into their wings. I consider 
> myself a student of their stillness.
> 
> On a gray November day, it's surprising how long it takes the light to 
> finally fade. Not long ago I visited a friend on her ranch in eastern 
> Colorado. She wanted to work her sheepdog, Wiz, in an enclosure set among 
> the cottonwoods in a sandy draw. The very edge of darkness had already 
> come. My friend drove a small flock of Katahdin sheep, scattering, out of 
> their pen. At the sight of Wiz darting back and forth, they bunched.
> 
> There is not much luminosity in a sheep's fleece, but there was enough to 
> rest my eyes upon. After a while, the sheep returned to their pen, and we 
> walked down a path under the cottonwoods to the edge of a meadow. We stood 
> in full night. But out in the shortgrass, dusk still lingered as though it 
> might never go out.
> 
> 
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