Answer to the city cry...
Maybe, for those in the dewllings of the concret canyons, this is what one finds. Myself, the damp that has been perminating every crack through it's forceful downpore is enough to turn a man to despirate outlets for salvation from the weight of the clouds. Yet somehow, even though we sit besides the see we forget the haunting effects that these clouds have on the intersect of the elements of water and woods.
Headed out to Sequim. NOAA had mentioned that from 9am to 3pm on Sunday, it would be a window in the rain that had suddenly began it's descent much like the monsoons. Out along Dungoness Spit, where the sky, water and woods interesect, the land and the sea weaved it's spell on me. Looking along the drop from the Peaks of the Olympics, the weaving myst and clouds delt tightly into the depths of those ancient cedars. I could almost hear the drums inside, pounding out there sacred rythmn, pushing one forward with quickening pace. The spirits were alive that day. Over flew a raven, black as night... Landing on a lone pice of driftwood high in the air over the cliff, he looked down at me... Looking with curiousity. It was Raven the trickster, looking for his next awakening. Deep these woods house there spirits... Niether evil nor good, they keep the sentinals watch, as the seas curn againg and again against the long banks.
The sound becomes alive when the rains come. We spend our summers walking the high mountains, and in the winters yerning for them again. But the everpresence of the Sound itself, Whulge, as ancients used to call it gives more to our center then one could possibly imagine. Take the time to sit out... Listen to the repeated awash of the ocean tides... The mists that make the land sacred, and the chill that sobers a man straight to the bone...
After all, the land is alight with the full moon...
-- Ridgewalker
Headed out to Sequim. NOAA had mentioned that from 9am to 3pm on Sunday, it would be a window in the rain that had suddenly began it's descent much like the monsoons. Out along Dungoness Spit, where the sky, water and woods interesect, the land and the sea weaved it's spell on me. Looking along the drop from the Peaks of the Olympics, the weaving myst and clouds delt tightly into the depths of those ancient cedars. I could almost hear the drums inside, pounding out there sacred rythmn, pushing one forward with quickening pace. The spirits were alive that day. Over flew a raven, black as night... Landing on a lone pice of driftwood high in the air over the cliff, he looked down at me... Looking with curiousity. It was Raven the trickster, looking for his next awakening. Deep these woods house there spirits... Niether evil nor good, they keep the sentinals watch, as the seas curn againg and again against the long banks.
The sound becomes alive when the rains come. We spend our summers walking the high mountains, and in the winters yerning for them again. But the everpresence of the Sound itself, Whulge, as ancients used to call it gives more to our center then one could possibly imagine. Take the time to sit out... Listen to the repeated awash of the ocean tides... The mists that make the land sacred, and the chill that sobers a man straight to the bone...
After all, the land is alight with the full moon...
-- Ridgewalker