Friday, November 25, 2005

The cold, raven, machine noises

It hasn't been really cold for a long time, so I enjoy the biting wind on my face above my thick, woolen scarf and below my beret basque, and I especially like it when you exchange the cold for a warm house.

A raven, slow and black from beak to tail, after a lumbering flight, alights on a larch tree in the Grove. Immediately, a squirrel and a magpie, which have been minding their own business, leave the young tree to its new occupant.

Have you noticed how machines - pedestrian-crossings, trains riding over sleepers, for example - seem to have a language of their own? Fitting words to their rhythms can be amusing, but are they always saying the same things? Today, my printer repetitively intones:" rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb- rue", with emphasis on the final "rue", like the refrain of a nursery rhyme. I am sure that I have heard it say other things in the past, but cannot now recall what they were.

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