I love the Pleiades, that silvery rash on the winter sky that I always want to scratch.
Lying on my back this evening in the pile of woodchips, stirrup hoe and hacket flung down beside me, sun just down, Orion raising his sketchy club far above my head, my eye keeps skating back to that blur of light that is the Seven Sisters, the Sailing Ones, the Full or Many, the Flock of Doves.
It is the first of February and I've been working all afternoon weeding the south slope in short-sleeves. Soon I will get too cold, lying here watching the sky. The sky seems so still but all the time it's moving. Soon it will be cold again, the rain will fall and everything will freeze again, even the ground. This sunny Saturday is only a kiss of comfort Oregon gives her children every year, halfway through the winter, before tucking us back down under the cloud cover and sending us off once more into the dark and wet weeks still up ahead.
Up above the Pleiades are there and not there when you try to look right at just one of them.
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