Dennis Minsky
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In the pale morning light I began to notice that the wooden wall of the shower was in motion: in fact, it was crawling! A closer look revealed dozens and dozens of pillbugs roaming about, exploring the surface, bumping into each other, and apparently having a fine old time. -
On a recent mild May morning, I received a gift from the woods. A real gift.
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The other day, on one of the last whale watches of the year, a passenger told me that the day before, in thick fog, out at the end of MacMillan Wharf, he heard the sounds of a whale singing.
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We all live our lives within routines, whether we are aware of them or not. Every morning, in my own routinized life, I eat a simple breakfast and then sip my coffee and read.
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I do not understand the brilliance of the bright full moon in the sky tonight, though I stand beneath it on the beach. I have had its phases explained to me, but I do not fully grasp them.
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This woodland I walk in is not just a collection of trees, or a series of perches and habitats for birds and other wildlife.
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On a raw cold gray day in late December, up on Pilgrim Heights in North Truro, a lone bird sits on a telephone wire. It is a Mourning Dove, slightly swaying in the wind.
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It is just November. A few crickets still “sing” their nightly serenades. What they are chirping about, drawing wing over wing, is impulse and desire, although in a mechanistic, formalized mode, much like the peepers’ chorus in the raw months of spring.
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This week Dennis Minsky of Provincetown greets the early morning world.
