Clouds in the canyon,
brushing rock faces they have known
for a million years.
Nothing else quite equals Black and White for expressing the cool, dark mysteries of shadows.
To contemplate is to look at shadows. —Victor Hugo
However it’s framed, life on the grasslands of southern Saskatchewan has never been easy.
After the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars. —Carl Sandburg
Most years, this nesting box is passed over; birds, we know, have their own likes and dislikes. While swallows have occasionally shown interest, it sits at the verge of the forest, near the top of our driveway, and limits their aerobatics.
But there are always surprises. A pair claimed the box several days ago, and as I walked down to get the paper this morning I met one of them, returning with breakfast. I was grateful for that instant, when the bird hesitated at the opening, the curve and symmetry of its wings highlighted by the sunlight, before it returned for seconds.
The answer is, none of the above. When I hear the word spare I think of simple, strong designs, of landscapes I’ve visited, and there’s nowhere more spare…sparse…than the desert.
The leaf was a holdover from last autumn, clinging stubbornly to the past at the top of the tree or caught in tall grass at the edge of our yard, but when I brought it to the house and set in on the wooden bench by the back door it became a study in contrasts in the morning sunlight. I definitely saw a lion when I flipped it over, but I prefer this version.
If everything isn’t black and white, I say,
‘Why the hell not?’—John Wayne