Winter Solstice 2007

The day begins with morning sun slanting through a mist reminiscent of a fine, silver snow falling across the neighbor's lawn. The light has drifted south into a notch between the houses before filtering through the oaks which jealously clutch their leaves until spring. The evening promises to be humid, the air thick, penetrating and chill. The sun reflects off a dampened driveway that could be coated with ice, setting fire to a normally shadowed corner of the room.

Behind the house, snowbird starlings perch atop the power lines wing to wing, slowly nudging each other out from the center. First one, then another seeks a more prestigious position that chases down the line like the ripples of a rumor. At the end, the least becomes first as he circles below and sends another murmur of a conversation through his lesser peers. One line down, the final outcast takes wing which startles the flock into flight. They spring to the air as one, wheeling across the sky, their shadows by the hundreds speckling the grass like the shade of a thick-trunked maple on a windy day. After a time they resettle, content for a moment until one covets his neighbor's place and the jostling begins again.

The winter solstice is our high holiday. For us, the day is elemental, composed of fire and water, earth and air, and spirit. Candles throw back the darkness of our troubles. The lake reflects the sunset as we reflect upon the year. The stone out front stands only slightly more weathered like a sentinel and reminder. The wind echoes our transgressions and whispers its forgiveness. We fill our glasses with a measure of each, the mixture reawakening our souls after their long slumber, healing any damage like a balm.

Like the starlings, we observe rituals that onlookers may not always understand as we send forth our desire for a better year ahead. Such wishes are the gifts we sometimes share with others, wisps of parchment fitted into the cracks of a wall, stones thrown at a pillar to beat back temptation, lights floated down a river to wash away our sins, votives flickering in a nave in remembrance of our dead. Symbols and ceremonies that fill the emptiness we sometimes feel, reminding us that we're human. In community or solitude, such prayers populate this longest night. Like the constellations and wandering stars, together they are bright enough to guide us once we let our eyes adjust, like the lone lamp upon our stove burning through the night.

Whatever the light that guides you on your winter celebrations, we hope that it, like your Solstice, remains warm and bright.


© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Thank You and Goodbye

By the time I found them again, they no longer had names, only numbers. To the county, each could be represented in five digits, like a concentration camp internee whose identity had been tattooed upon his arm. To me they were living, breathing creatures that deserved a chance to stay alive.

Of course, they never knew they had been named. They were wild animals, feral cats who were part of the colony that lived behind my townhome. Brothers or cousins, one was all black, the other a pale gray tiger that Karen and I had watched play as kittens, watched grow over the previous year. We had watched with disapproval when my neighbor started feeding them, first once a week then once a day. Watched with pity when she stopped, saying, now there were too many. And then with horror when we saw the trap.

Not so much saw it as heard the angry and confused cries of cats testing a cage on my neighbor's porch. When I peered through the screen, I saw the long, metal trap, the two brothers pacing restively within. Every instinct told me to test the screen door and, if it was open, release them. I decided to pursue their freedom through a more legal means that didn't involve the words "breaking" and "entering." Stenciled across the trap in black, blocked letters was "Pinellas County Animal Control." At least I knew where to start.

The next day Karen and I drove to their facility, a series of cinderblock buildings that reminded me of a bunker complex in the somewhat rural center of the county. I thought it would be easy, just claim them, pay the fine and set them free. But the women at the front desk had no record of two cats being picked up from our neighborhood in a trap. We were welcome to look around.

We scanned the adoption center, the neat and clean, brightly painted public area which housed all the kittens and gentle adults. A quick search confirmed that neither of our two was that tame or desirable. So we were escorted behind the counter through the double steel doors with chipped, surplus tan paint into the unfinished working areas of the facility. Looking back, they should have placed a sign above the entry like Dante: "Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate."

The strays, normally solitary creatures, were packed eighty or more to each of the five enclosed pens, climbing the chainlink, clawing and biting the metal strands, searching for any escape before a needle and the incinerator transformed their lives to smoke and ash, and the cage was refilled with their brethren. "Only 94 today," our guide mentioned offhandedly.

Karen spotted the black through the perpetually shifting bodies, crouching near the back of the enclosure marked "Tuesday," the day he would be destroyed if it rolled around again. To prevent that I claimed him as I wished that I could claim them all. His brother was nowhere in sight. So we were led deeper into the labyrinth, through a another set of doors into another ring of feline hell.

Stacks of individual cages, each just large enough for its occupant to stretch whiskers to tail, formed chest-high corridors redolent with urine and fear. Some individuals were labeled with a warning, like "Bites." Most only bore a five-digit number stenciled across the card with the information vital to their destruction, barely readable in the dim, flickering fluorescent light. Some growled or hissed, or swatted at a passing sleeve. Most curled up as far as they could from the barking din nearby, feigning sleep. After wandering corridor after corridor, we finally found the gray tiger with a card marked "Aggressive," head on paws, seemingly resigned to his fate.

Our two lost souls reclaimed, we were guided to a worn exam room with concrete floors and metal tables that smelled of disinfectant where they would receive their shots from the county vet. The vet techs asked with concern if I was certain I wanted to adopt them after seeing how wild they were, giving me dubious looks when I said that I did. They insisted that I hold the black for his shots, saying that if I didn't they wouldn't let me take him, thinking I would come to my senses and back away. I didn't.

The black received his vaccinations with great reluctance and some struggle resulting in a scratch or two. Perhaps it would be easy after all. When the tiger's turn came, he earned the label from his card. First, the techs had to use the loop around his neck just to get him out of the cage. When they did, he fought and slashed like the wild cat that he was. Skin was broken and bled. Scars began to form. Unsatisfied with a few scrapes, his teeth found purchase on a finger and sank in deep. I howled which scared him enough to let go and retreat into a corner where the techs looped his neck again before stuffing him back into the cage.

That encounter earned them both a mandatory twelve days in quarantine for breaking skin, with a trip to the emergency room for a tetanus shot with a two-week course of powerful antibiotics for me while I waited to see if they came up rabid. I knew it was unlikely. At that time, there hadn't been a case of rabies in the county for over 20 years.

The techs asked if I was still certain that I wanted them, whether I was going to come back for them, thinking as they watched me cradle my hand in my handkerchief that I wouldn't. I left them no doubt that I would. Satisfied that I would follow through with my lie taking them into my home, the techs softened, saying they would be ready when I returned, shots and all.

The nearly two weeks in isolation took any remaining fight out of them. The quarantine area left both of them with a cough, the black's worse than the gray's. After paying the $138 in fines and fees, and ushering them into the carrier I had brought, I finally took them home. Once there, I placed them on the porch to make sure they were ok before I released them. The gray tiger seemed mostly healthy, interested in the food I gave him, if as cautious of me as I was of him. My finger still throbbed. The black only lay in the carrier, wheezing and sleeping. There was no way I could let him go just yet.

After the gray tiger ate his fill, I opened the screen door to the outside. He approached it cautiously, step by step, conflicted by seeing me in the path of his freedom. Then he started into a dead run for the door from several feet away, swerving around me. He disappeared quickly into the palmetto stands around the oaks behind the complex.

The black I tended overnight. I opened one of my remaining antibiotics and mixed half into his food. I knew from the cats I owned that the dose was close to what he would have gotten in a day from a vet. He ate hungrily then slept. I fed him again the next morning with a second dose mixed in. Again, he wolfed it all down. When I came home from work that evening, I prepared a dish one final time with a final dose of antibiotics, hoping that it would be enough. He had improved significantly, his breathing was clear, and now he was restless. I opened his cage on the porch and set the food beside the screen door before retreating back inside. He ate ravenously as I watched through the kitchen window, bolting back into the carrier as soon as he heard me at the door.

I opened the screen door to the porch, then sat in the chair across from it and waited, very still. After several minutes, he slowly emerged from the carrier he now thought of as his territory, a retreat he could defend. With a careful eye on me, he crept toward the open door. At the threshold he sniffed the air and relaxed a bit, seeming to recognize the scents of home. Then he looked at me as though asking for permission. I nodded slowly though I knew he wouldn't understand the gesture. He crept outside a foot, then two. He sniffed the grass, then tested the scents on the air. I figured he would disappear quickly at this point, just like this brother had.

Instead, what he did stays with me to this day, set clearly in my mind. He turned around and came back onto the porch through the open door. He approached me cautiously, watching for any sudden motion. I sat frozen, knowing if I moved he would be gone. Once beside me, he rubbed against my leg hard enough for me to feel through my jeans, once, then twice, and slowly but more assuredly headed back out the door. Outside again, he looked me in the eye a last time over one shoulder, then walked toward the palmettos, unthreatened, vanishing between their fronds without a sound.

I never saw either of the brothers again, as I hoped I wouldn't. The techs had warned me that if they were rounded up a second time, as repeat offenders, the county would not let me save them from the needle's kiss. With no one feeding it, the colony disbanded but didn't quite dissolve completely. That winter on the eve of a Christmas freeze, Karen adopted one of their sons, or brothers, or cousins, another gray tiger, young enough to adapt to humans. The years he lived with us were like touching a piece of the wild. He was willful and independent.

A year later when the brothers' license renewals came, I listed them as "no longer owned." As if I ever had or could own them. As a final act, I recorded the names I had given them on the forms, to show, if nothing else, that they were more than numbers to me. For a year, they and their siblings had greeted me each morning or evening when I returned home from work, depending on the shift. Their mother had allowed Karen and I to watch them from the porch without much concern, until she drove them off to fend for themselves one day. Even then, they remained close to where they had grown up, sharing our backyard as their home. 16017: Dark Sky; 15985: Silver Moon. I hope they lived their remaining days as they were born, wild and free.

On days that I wonder what footprints I leave upon the sands of this world before time and tide wash them away, I remember that clear, cool Florida afternoon in spring when a creature who had no reason to trust me re-entered an enclosure that could have been another trap just to say thank you and goodbye.

That memory is worth the scars, faded now but still visible on my finger, sometimes throbbing though not often. It reminds me to give thanks for life and each opportunity I am given to survive, no matter how little I may understand the moments as they pass me by. Perhaps the need is instinctive.


© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III

Journeys over Water

We travel from our troubles toward a place of greater safety, a sanctuary if only for a day. Three times we cross the water at midday, three times we return at twilight. Six passages that echo like a spell of initiation gaining power as its mantra is repeated. Six shining swords of motion we now carry that resonate with magic each time we climb the stone hill arching above the bay.

A sparkling road across a deep blue field intersects our path, leading directly toward the sun. Before us, clouds trailing mist lighten the azure of the sky to aqua in their wake, though the illusion of their rain is dispelled long before the ground. Below, a spider web of lines anchors the fishing pier to the water.

Rafts of terns drift idly across the bay. Cormorants are stacked in a precise pecking order on the crossbars of a ranging tower. Open formations of pelicans glide just above the wave tops, their wingtips brushing the water, leaving a trail of ripples as if from a line of isolated showers. Ospreys sit sentinel atop the light poles that line the causeway like columns crowned with slowly blinking gargoyles whose heads swivel to eye us as we pass.

On the far shore, gray-bearded oaks witness our approach over an alien landscape their children will never visit while crows gossip across the sky, rumoring our arrival.

With our departure, distant clouds focus the setting sun into an orange-white blaze as they transit the horizon like distant mariners manning crystal ships that sail above the sea. Inland, a pillar of glass and steel captures the sun and is transformed into a burning beacon of divine providence or an omen of its impending wrath. The finger of flame fades as we slowly descend toward home, leaving us unscathed.

The sun now set, the turquoise mirror of the water reflects the pinks and lavender-grays of the approaching evening that marks an end to our adventures. Returning to familiar ground, we prepare to move the cycle forward into a better year ahead, the difficulty of the journey now behind us.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III