Shrouded Shore: The Many Musings of Thom Singleton

  Wind World Maple leaves, colored light green by the sun shining through, flutter in the stiff breeze, and cast their shimmering shadows on the meadow. The buck thorn,  bobbing and weaving in the gusts, make funny faces in their leafy branches. The spruce greet the day with their shawled arms waving hello. A lone squirrel braves the wind, always on the hunt for nuts. Other four-leggeds stay in their burrows, not yet used to the cold. Even the birds stay sheltered from the wind, figuring it’s not worth the effort. The wind takes over the world.  

  Feelings Are you in-the-moment right now? What’s the feeling inside? Are you blah or rah? Eek or ache? Or just plain irate? Bored or glad? Scared or sad? Or just plain mad? Express them safely Let them go When you do You’ll feel glad!

  The Artist in the Sky The distant Sun, artist of our own corner of the cosmos, paints Earth’s clouds red and yellow. Then, somehow, a bolt of not lightning but light pierces through the tangle of trees behind our house, and falls on the dew-jeweled meadow. The Sun, an artist beyond compare.

  Ice Cream, Home-made A pail, a canister. a mixing motor A few ingredients And ice and salt to freeze them In half an hour, ice cream! Delicious, no additives Just smooth, frozen delight Fun to make and, especially, to eat

  Ish Added to a word, ish turns it to “almost,” as in summerish, or warmish. Or “around,” as in 70ish. Or “near,” as in greenish, yellowish. Or “close to,” as in 9ish, 10ish, noonish. As in “I’ll meet you at 6ish for a walk. It will be warmish. We’ll see early autumn colors, redish, yellowish. Good thing we’re youngish for it’s a longish walk.” We got home at 8ish, had a drink, and said, “Ish wash good, washn’t ish?”

  A Weathered Old Gate A weathered old gate, nearly unhinged, creaks and cries as it swings in the wind. A portal like this, if it could talk, would have stories to tell of who came down the walk. These old stories are to me legendary,  I will search my memory to see who made this journey. While bouncing a ball on the fence down the walk, I found then that the gate started to talk. Talk? More like creak, as the rusty old hinges started to squeak. You always knew without looking outside When the wind was up, making the swinging gate shriek. I and my siblings passed through it to school, and sometimes would forget to latch it, as was the rule. Sure enough, our dog Rover would follow us to school, and often would end up in the office, under the principal’s rule. So many times did this occur, that the dog was named school mascot, the principal’s Rover. Door-to-door salesmen entered back in the day, swinging open the gate to make their play. But as convincing as their sales pitch might have