Seon Joon, of 如 (thus) 是, sitting there writing in the morning light – precisely where and as I usually write of a morning: cross legged in the love seat with a laptop on her lap. Makes me inordinately happy.
Martha still asleep. Sun lighting up the maple flower. I walked out this morning and found my trees again. Twenty-some needles spring from a single peg: but some single needles grow right off the twig. I found one old last-year's cone in the mud. Shaped like a small potato. When I pulled, it came apart into nested rings, like an arboreal version of a Russian doll. I'm becoming convinced that what I have here are Western Larches. Nothing else seems to fit the bill. Some people call them tamaracks, I understand, although they're a slightly different species from the eastern, mostly Canadian tamarack. I was confused by them being called deciduous, since these are fully fledged, but maybe they don't shed that much down here in the lowlands, where it often barely freezes in the winter.
Flickers and robins calling. Maybe a ramble in the Gorge later; some massage in the evening.
It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote:
Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote,
That I have had my world as in my tyme.