Sandy Supposes....

Window On My World

PROMPT November 3rd

I recently took a class in Nature Journaling. For this Creation Saturday, find a place to sit outdoors (or at a window) and observe what your see, feel, smell, and hear. Record your observations in any form you choose (poem, monologue, short story, drawing, personification of the animal you're watching, etc).

*NoteB* *NoteO* *NoteB* *NoteO* *NoteB* *NoteO* *NoteB* *NoteO* *NoteB* *NoteO*

         Seated next to my livingroom window I shiver. I swear I hear the wind howling or perhaps it's me, as the snow whirls in increasingly angrier gusts. Nope, I choose not to sit outside. Besides , all my lawn chairs are tucked away at my campsite awaiting the return of Spring. Ah, my seasonal campsite.... now that is the perfect place to relax and observe the wildlife.

         I laugh as the scurrying squirrels and the scampering chipmunks drop all pretense of scavenging for sustenance and instead chase each other. You know chipmunks are tiny, but feisty. They tease, and parade themselves oh so tantalizingly close, and then they turn on their rocket boosters to leave the sorry squirrels in their dust. All the larger mammal can do is release his frustration in a barrage of rat-a-tat chirrs. Granted I don't parlez-vous squirrel, but I recognize cursing when I hear it.

         Now the raucous bird battles that awake me before dawn are another matter entirely. Swarms of black feathers screech and squawk. I'm confused. Are they squabbling? Are they just naturally loud and aggressive? I believe these noise makers are grackles, harsh sounding name that reminds me of cackle.

         Sigh, now I sit at a window that reflects that dreary prelude to a full-blown winter.. For the past few weeks, a consistent tableau played outside my window.. I shall endeavour to describe it in real time.

         I recline here at my glass portal and gaze in wonder as I witness the slow rebirth of a road while I marvel at my good fortune to observe the rituals of a construction crew in their natural habitat. I'm certain my scrutiny goes undetected.

         Neon orange hard hats glint in the sun. Distinctive orange vests emblazoned with a yellow cross flutter in the breeze.. They huddle together next to an indentation in the scarred earth. Some lean on shovels for support. Some slouch with their hands stuffed deep into pockets. A few kick at the ground. They suggest inertia.

         As a group, they tense and straighten. Their heads swivel. A lone shiny, white hard hat approaches clutching an object under one arm. A clipboard is flourished that captures attention. The new subject looks down then up. With his free hand, he waves. He sweeps. He points. He gesticulates. His rapt audience nods. A few stomp their feet.

         Snorting behemoths rumble to a stop. They spill dark soil onto the ground in immense piles. Dirt swirls. Fine grit spatters my glass panes. A throaty roar and metallic clank reverberate off my shaking window. The floor beneath me trembles. A large-mouthed machine pushes the soil as it lumbers along.

          A shrill horn blares, it's a signal. Everything grinds to a halt. Shovels are thrown. Hard hats are stripped from perspiring heads and grubby hands smooth back frizzled hair. Backs are thumped. The vest-robed creatures shuffle out of sight en masse. They scatter. An orange and black-striped cone rolls across the abandoned street. Yellow caution tape flickers and flaps. The mighty giants hiss and creak as they settle. The dirt swirls...