Birdie and I will probably spend our first night in 'our' house this evening. I suspect Baba Yaga dwells there too. It is a very small house -- you could almost call it a Hut if it were made more of sticks and bones and less of lumber and paint. Most strikingly, it hides low amidst trees grown amok. Though it's right in town on a civilized little street, it does lie in the lap of the foothills, and my mother created not a yard but a miniature wildwood. The trees call over rooftops to their wild mountain cousins, and bears come looking for tidbits. There are mad-grown junipers whose cragged shaggy arms stretch for wee plump children passing on the sidewalk. These witch-trees were summoned some forty years ago by my Granny, herself a close associate of all famous folktale Crones. My mother and I together planted some now towering pines and well grown spruce, blue and dark. Tiny blue-purple wildflowers linger. Lichenous stones lure one to sit and wait in green shadow for...
Altogether, perhaps a better place to make magic than I had credited when last I lived here -- ghosts of dread and mundane things (like high school) obscured my vision.
We shall see.