Senses Tension Yesterday

Tersiiska Leaves with Water Drops

What kind of rain is this falling ? The sun shining under a grey morning sky with fine rainbow drops falling straight down.  The kind that sucks up perfume on the way and tastes of spring when you wipe it off your face as you walk along the route.

What kind of new perfume is this ? … comes out in spring with apple, jacaranda and azalea blossoms color along the route. The kind rinsed out of the air with the sunny light rain falling onto your hands and face as you walk along the route. The kind with no brand label.

What kind of music is that ? The kind that you hear with random backyard birds by nesting magpies vs territorial minors next conferencing cockatoos soon kookaburras laughing at and the your thoughts coming too.. as you walk along the route.  The kind that defies notation.

What kind of thought is that ? The kind you have when you hear things in your head in competition with the birds and the flowers and the rain and distractions as you walk along the route. The kind that makes ideas and dreams for the future.

What kind of touch was that ? The kind that feels like clinging to you as you walk by brushing the long leaves passed along the route. O If I were blind I’d probably feel it more.

But what kind of green is that ? The kind that corporations write in  power skyscrapers, the kind that the media think in pages of the frightening known or the kind that brushes by you in the soft rain and sunlight under a grey sky with a dozen different scents and sounds with seeming no beginning or end on the day that was yesterday.


Photo 365infocus-264 Tersiiska:Flickr  : Story and Text :Blogubarra Copyright 2014


Echoes in a Dreamscape


In the darkness, in the bush night sounds symphony, so  softly fills the air. Small chirping and crickets along with the trickling sound of the creek down in the sudden slots of the sandstone. Sandstone carved through with centuries of floods and rains in the days and the nights. There is the dark cool air sound sounds smoothly from rock to rock through the twisted moonlit trees and land animals and forms spring into the imagination.  For the real animals are not wild here.  The slugs and snails and invertebrates and mosses and lichens and the flying silent moths.   Through that dark scariness the silent silent swish of the frogmouth flying past.  So still on a branch as to become the branch until that branch starts to make that hypnotic frogmouth………. houm… houm…houm…houm…houm…Houm…houm…houm………like an overlay. Like a meditative trance echo impossible to locate from the bird sitting so still the air moves more the he does. Then silently down to capture the little snail or slug iridescent in the moonlight.  And then on like the quiet bird of prey in the not so quiet still of the night.




Tawny Frogmouth Call 

photo: christolograph/flickr – copyright