I've been neglecting the blog. There is no lack of desire, simply a lack of time.
I have to pass my fourth semester of French in the spring, so I'm sitting in on the third-semester French class to review something I haven't thought about in 25 years. The memory of how to speak that language is buried under so many layers of life. Pulling it up from the bottom of that well is taking a bit of effort. Reading French is going well, but trying to compose a sentence... It's a lot like my poetry writing, painfully slow.
Creekside, everything is as it's always been: in a constant state of change. The August floods rewrote the banks. Giant tree snags unanchored briefly to sail downstream. The duckweed is regenerating. My thoughts are turning towards fire, socks, and burning leaves.