Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

  Answers to yesterday’s riddle:   What “walks” on its back?  A baby kicking its legs. Then on all-fours?  The baby crawling. Then on just two?  Now a child. Then on three? Much older, walking with a cane. Or maybe four? Walking with two canes. Then, as some say, sprouts wings? At the end, flies like an angel.  

  A Riddle (For the answer see tomorrow’s blog) What “walks” on its back? Then on all-fours? Then on just two? Then on three? Or, maybe, four? Then, as some say, sprouts wings?

  It’s Raining Gold The change to gold progresses Green to gold on the maple tree The southerning Sun has done his job The Wind will do the rest A shower of gold each time the Wind blows Today, blue sky, winds high, leaves flying like a flock of golden birds

  Fly Like a Leaf      Oh to be on the open road, again at liberty, to fly like a leaf      Where’er wind, will, or whisper may carry our hearts                                                                        –Author unknown This lyric was sung many years ago around a campfire encircled by tree planters in the national forest of northern Wisconsin. Patti and I and little Aaron were among them, resting after planting an acre or two that day, and caring for the little guy. In late October, when I see leaves blowing in the wind, I am reminded  of that song, and of our month-long tree planting experience with people in touch with the land. Today, blue sky, winds high, leaves flying like flocks of golden birds.

  A Creature of Rhythm Like breathing Like in and out Like breathing Like in and out Like breathing Like in and out Like in and out Like in and out… Like eating Like chomp and chew Like eating Like chomp and chew Like eating Like chomp and chew Like chomp and chew Like chomp and chew… Like writing Like poetry Like writing Like poetry Like writing Like poetry Like poetry Like poetry… Like breathing Like poetry Like breathing Like poetry Like breathing Like poetry Like poetry Like poetry… :

  The Gold of October We have a new vision, the color of gold, In the maple and the meadow outside our window. As the arc of the Sun heads south, its brilliance for a time remains In the maple leaves transformed to visual riches Both in the tree leaves, and, when they fall, in the carpet below. Leaves still on the tree wave goodbye in the wind, wave goodbye to the Sun. The tree knows it will welcome again Sun’s warming rays in the spring.