A Tidings of Magpies

In the White Sky by William Stafford Many things in the world have already happened. You can go back and tell about them. They are part of what we own as we speed along through the white sky. But many things in the world haven't yet happened. You help them by thinking and writing and acting. Where they begin, you greet them or stop them. You come along and sustain the new things. Once, in the white sky there was a beginning, and I happened to notice and almost glimpsed what to do. But now I have come far to here, and it is away back there. Some days, I think about it. Hubby and I are sitting here this morning drinking our coffees and listening to WWOZ out of New Orleans on the computer and trying to decide what to do with our day off. If anything. It's cool and grey here. Good day to curl up and read or watch more episodes of Treme in our vigorous and studious attempt to learn about our daughter's new home. I...

Well, MissNewOrleans Grrrrl is unpacked in her new apartment and sent us a pic of the orange tree outside her kitchen window. That seems a good omen to me for a sweet home.  Live Oaks, New Orleans by Jennifer Maier They square off along Napoleon avenue, opposing armies of dark women, leaning out so far their branches meet at the top, like hands grabbing fistfuls of tangled hair; and some of them are old, with the thick, scarred trunks of Storyville madams, and roots so strong their suck heaves up the sidewalk like so many broken saltines. And some are young, with the straightbacked bodies of girls who dream of horses and the brown arms of the neighbor boys, but underground the red roots grow together, fuse in a living circuitry spun deep and stronger than the whims of emperors, as if they've known all along that earth's the right place for love, as though, planted in battle lines, they incline toward the circle, and hold it open...

The Dancers Inherit the Party by Ian Hamilton Finlay When I have talked for an hour I feel lousy— Not so when I have danced for an hour: The dancers inherit the party While the talkers wear themselves out and sit in corners alone, and glower.

Storage by Faith Shearin That year we left the house we couldn't afford and put our belongings in storage. We were free now to travel or live in tiny spaces. We kept our chairs and tables in a cement cell, our bookshelves, our daughter's old toys, clothes we wouldn't wear or discard. There were books we liked but did not need and mattresses and pots and pans. Sometimes we went to visit our things: sat in our rocking chairs, searched for a jacket, listened to an old radio. It was like visiting someone I loved in a hospital: the way, removed from the world, a person or object becomes thin, diminished. The furniture on which we lived our young life had no job but to wait for us. It remembered our dinners, the light through our windows, the way the baby once played on the floor.

The tax man cometh. please note: photo by Larry Lynch, National Geographic Photo of the Day

Our girlie-girl was in New Orleans for the Final Four final game, but had another reason to be down there which involved a job interview. After weeks of crossing our fingers and lighting multiple Our Lady of Guadelupe candles--very concerned about job prospects and economic recovery--our girl found out she got the job. While she is busy packing up this weekend for her move next week, we are busy gathering bits and pieces here to exchange with her the things she won't need till she finds an apartment. Go down with a fold-up cot, come back with a backseat full of winter coats and sweaters. Sheer joy and excitement have been replaced with some nostalgia and a nod to Time who keeps truckin' on whether we are quite packed and ready or not. For a Daughter Gone Away by Brendan Galvin Today there’ve been moments the earth falters and almost goes off in those trails of smoke that resolve to flocks so far And small they elude my naming. Walking the Boston ...

Contentment by Michael Ryan Fragile, provisional, it comes unbidden as evening: the children on the block called in to dinner that for tonight is plentiful, as if it had cost nothing either in money or worry about money. Then evening deepens and the street turns silent. There may be disasters idling in driveways, and countless distresses sharpening, but all that matters most that must be done is done. please note: photo by Abu Emir