With such a lovely voice you chime
Playful song sparrow
Brightening my morning coffee time
It will be a good day
A loud and distinct song you sing
A final act before the evening
It will be a good night
The sun’s warm rays
Brought bursting colours to branches
The small winged creatures
Will blend in nature’s colourful canvas
The orange half-moon winks at us as it drops to the ground. The Canadian continues its journey westward, unaffected by the darkness that envelops everything around it. In the dark coach car, only a few reading lights point their narrow pencil beams to the seats below, lighting the worn pages of books in the hands of passengers awaiting the sandman.
I lean my head on the cold window and close my eyes, hoping sleep will come soon. I can hear the young couple chatting and laughing, loudly, a few rows behind. They’ve never heard the saying “use your spa voice,” obviously. The lady across the row, the one with the sleep mask, the fluffy pillows, and the thick comforter, talks to the characters in her dream. I hope she doesn’t sleepwalk. A green light flies by; I see its glow through my closed eyelids.
Then two red lights. Don’t two red lights mean stop? For a brief second, I wonder if the engineer could have missed the signal, barreling down the track toward the next freighter heading in the opposite direction. I shift in my seat and look around. Seems I’m the only person who has noticed. The train’s whistle blares, its sound sliding by me toward the back of the train. The collision I imagined never comes. The night steals Saskatchewan… The sun will rise in Alberta.
Night time on the rails
Signal lights break the darkness
Lonely and cold out
Harvest arrived early in Manitoba this year, compared to its western cousins. Soya and corn was pretty much all that was left standing in a few fields visible from the train, whereas still plenty of canola lay neatly piled in rows, drying out in the sun, and waiting to be harvested in Alberta and Saskatchewan.
Staring out at the fields, their neatly organized rows mowed down by now, I remembered my first walk in a field of stubble. Unlike a lush lawn, or warm soft sand, the sight awakes memories of walking on nails: rough, dry, unwelcoming. Unless you’re a Canada goose that is, who revel in the seeds that escaped the metal munching machine, before heading south.
A long lonely day
Collecting the year’s bounty
Goodness from the earth
White velvet petals
Colourful and sharp details
A scene of contrasts
The eyes of a child
Noticing for the first time
Awe and enchantment
The eyes of a man
Discerning a thousandth time
They come and they go
Buzzing, Taking, and Going
Nature never sleeps
Attraction for all sizes
Abundance to share
Grey clouds gave an early, ghostly glow
Sun and moon peeked brightly, briefly, though
What if the moon got stuck, forever casting shadows
Stopping todays from becoming tomorrows
Fear not such a lasting concealment
Eclipses last but a moment