Day fifteen: The Stevedore rescued a late-season minnow, too young to live through the frozen waters of winter. It was just before the first frost, so he took it home, with plans to release it in the spring. + + +
Day fourteen: A subsequent find from the potting shed was this mask made of a rack of stag horns. The eyeholes carved out of the skull’s forehead lent it an air of menace. + + +
Day thirteen: On a bookshelf in the guest room, a funny sort of mechanical clown toy happily took on the task of serving as a bookend. + + +
Day twelve: They felt a preview of Winter when the first wind arrived, bringing leaves down. Seasons no longer followed the rules they'd known all their lives. + + +
+ + + After I posted this (elsewhere), a friend quoted the Wallace Stevens poem, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird," to wit— II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. So now I rather look at these guys as blackbirds. Enjoy the poem.
Day ten: At an inland edge of town there remained vestigial freight rail tracks, seldom used. Occasionally in the night the reedy and wistful tune of a passing train crept into dreams, both sleeping and waking. + + +
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Day six: Here is the Victorian era mechanical cherry-stoner that she unearthed in the manky little potting shed, hidden almost entirely by vines and brambles in her new back garden. Its insect-like appearance startled the breath out of her upon pushing the door open. + + +
Day five: After three days of cleaning painting unpacking arranging, amid an atmosphere of dust, sundry piles of boxes— she’d quite forgotten her discovery. Cat, on the other hand, had discovered a perfect spot for afternoon naps. + + +
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 