Tarmac ribbons criss-crossing the landscape, dusty back roads twisting between the cool shadows of ancient pines, and less traveled pathways connecting present to past, all I wander, seeking, seeing, with my keyboard and camera capturing scenes and stories to share with you.

Now in its sixth year, this venue has become an important part of my life, a place where I can express my thoughts and feelings about the things I see and do, hoping the process brings me a bit closer to friends and family who enjoy sharing my sometimes chaotic and often nonlinear observations and ideas. A journal, I suppose, but one with which I find pleasure in thinking others are alongside me on my journey.

Comments, thoughts, or just a friendly chat, use the response box below or email me at patrickgroleau@gmail.com.

February 27, 2015

5:10am: MURDER BENEATH MY WINDOW

... in the middle of the night i awoke, a normal not-so-young-anymore occurrence, but this was different ... coming to consciousness i was already aware something was different, that a strange new presence had infiltrated my environment ... i arose and made the rounds, checking the stove was off, the toaster unplugged (those of you who know me well understand the particular paranoia i have concerning the dangers lurking in that death device) ... the refrigerator door was closed, faucets were tight, door was locked ... from one end of the apartment to the other, wandering to the darkened living room i found nothing amiss ...

... i was mystified, mostly because the feeling persisted that i wasn't alone in the night ... stepping to the window, i looked out, thinking i might be sensing the homeless man with the shopping cart who even in dead of winter never neglects his nightly round of the garbage cans ...

... 7°f, not even the hint of a breeze, no cars, all was still ...

... i raised the window, knowing—knowing there was something ... in the horror films, looking under the car, opening the door to the basement, entering the strange cabin, all are most foolish acts, but ... but, with a sense such as this, rational judgement flees and intellectual reason is overwhelmed by the desire to know ...

... leaning through the window frame, i took a great breath of the clear, cold air ... and i heard it ... to my left, just a whisper ... i looked ...

... crows ... Corvus brachyrhynchos ... hundreds of them, roosting in the tree outside my window ... one of them opened his eyes, stared at me for a moment, then softly squawked a single hushed "caw" ...

... "shhhhhhhhh ... we're sleeping" ...

... as quietly as possible i began to close my window ... as i did so, looking out to the west across the parking lot, it was then i saw the murder ...

... i thought to share what i'd seen ... as i write this the sky has lightened ... waking to the sunset soon-to-be, the crows are leaving ...

... it is a bit of a mystery, why a gathering of crows is called a "murder" ... equally unknown, to me, at least, is where they are going for the day ... down by the railroad tracks, to roost in the woods above the banks of the kennebec river, or, maybe, over to the little forest behind charlie gaunce's chevrolet dealership ...

... but ... watching them leave ... i have to wonder ... are they planning ... is their rowdy cawing evidence of sinister schemes ...

... should i make this a day to stay inside ... would it be wise to hide ... then again—then again, perhaps they awoke me for a reason ...

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

ROBERT FROST