Catherine Eaton
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sparrowpost.bsky.social
Catherine Eaton
@sparrowpost.bsky.social
4.2K followers 820 following 2.6K posts
Writer, naturalist, myth and oak lover, museum and play goer. Pursuer of whimsy. she/her. sparrowpost.com
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sparrowpost.bsky.social
The little dark-eyed juncos have my heart.
Small junco bird on snowy dried goldenrod peers between the wide railings of a deck. Snow is heaped on all ledges.
November 29, 2025 at 7:18 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
first quarter moon before the winter storm
silver quarter moon between bare tree branches during the blue hour
November 29, 2025 at 1:22 AM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
The cloud play on the river was delectable today.
Big white clouds shifting and playing along the river. Bits of sun and blue sky felt like a marvel after days of grey. More cloud play but with a wider lens. Tree along the bank is leaning towards the fun.
November 27, 2025 at 6:34 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
It turned out as well as I hoped. I used a new baking dish and it turned out loads better than my old Pyrex. A crispy edge is a beautiful thing.
November 26, 2025 at 8:35 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
And I finally remembered my apron before I started. I love the print but always forget it exists.
Large flowers of purple and pink against a black background.
November 26, 2025 at 5:40 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
Looks like a beaver has moved into town. I wish them all the best.
Young scrub tree fallen across a creek. Pointy stump indicates the culprit.
November 25, 2025 at 10:03 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
Happy Birthday, George Eliot. Thank you for writing out your beautiful heart despite everything.
The growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. George Eliot, Middlemarch
November 22, 2025 at 7:20 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
The clouds were telling their own story this early evening.
cloud coverage turning to heavy blots and swirls and trailing off towards the dim light of sunset.
November 22, 2025 at 2:37 AM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
A strange hopeful spring visitor: I don't think I've ever seen a violet blooming in November. Either they're confused or rushing
Purple Violet blooming amongst the fallen leaves
November 21, 2025 at 9:29 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
Spring coming into its own in April of this year.
an expansive lawn just beginning to turn green, magnolia trees blooming white and pink off in the distance. great sullen sky hanging over all.
November 21, 2025 at 9:01 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
Ahhhhh I was hoping they would mention mothman but no
News article header: A monkey on the loose: Odd animal sightings in Chicago Animal control is used to dealing with stray cats and dogs. But what happens when there's a peacock strutting down the alley?
November 20, 2025 at 3:50 AM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
Now that the leaves have mostly fallen, the park was completely empty at noon. I listened to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness and pondered how Corgan's opera version will sound next week.
Carpet of vibrant yellow leaves on the ground and lining the empty picnic benches. Trees are now bare.
November 20, 2025 at 1:30 AM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
The evening's sleet and rain stripped this all away, but yesterday was full of gentle yellows and leaves, this year's last.
Yellow maple with a carpet of fallen yellow leaves below.
November 19, 2025 at 1:25 AM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
I believe so! The portion above it too. Love this line: 'A sort of drive compels us to take the Book apart, to turn it into a piece of lace' thanks so much for finding this.
November 18, 2025 at 12:33 AM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
'Can't get that tune
out of my head,'

can't get that tree
out of

some place in me.
And don't want to

Denise Levertov, An Ancient Tree
An Ancient Tree 'Can't get that tune out of my head,' can't get that tree out of some place in me. And don't want to: the way it lifts up its arms, opens them, and- patient the way an elderly horse is patient-crosses them, aloft, to curve and recross: the standing, the being rooted, the look as of longing. At each divide, the choice endured, branches taking their roads in air. Glance up from the kitchen window; that tree word, still being said, over the stone wall. Fall mornings, its head of twigs vaguely lifted, a few apples yellow in silver fog. Denise Levertov
November 14, 2025 at 11:22 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
a bright day now moving to dreamy
Cloud coverage moving in but still some bright blue sky in the distance. Two rusty red tamerisks on either side of an oak with yellow leaves.
November 13, 2025 at 8:56 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
Everything has either faded or fallen, but yet this witch hazel has burst into bloom.
Little yellow stars of witch hazel lining its bush branches Another shot of yellow witch hazel against a clear blue sky
November 12, 2025 at 9:33 PM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
I found this ticket stub in the pocket of an old coat and have absolutely no memory of seeing it. Since it's a Coen brothers film, a rewatch is in order.
Pale pink ticket stub from a Feb 28 2016 showing of Hail Caesar
November 11, 2025 at 1:31 AM
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November is for Jean Follain
Ombres Deux hommes discutent et leurs raisons sont celles de l'alcool, un enfant boucle son ceinturon sur un sarrau maculé de boue sèche, à son côté frissonne un arbre ; de vieilles lies stagnent près du vantail des distilleries et des relents de poisson flottent aux abords du clair couvent. Les maraîchers font claquer des baisers sur les joues de leurs filles aux pâleurs vivantes qui soignent des terreaux ; un prêtre frotte l'une à l'autre ses mains de laboureur gantées d'anciens gants noirs rougis et le personnage des rêves boit d'un vin lourd de myrte et de cyprès dans une coupe taillée à même les glaces de son cœur. Shadows Two men are arguing and their reasons are alcohol, a child buckles the belt on a jacket flecked with dried mud, at his side a tree shivers; old lees stagnate near the paneled door of the distillers and a stench of fish floats at the edges of the bright convent. Farmers make kisses clap on the cheeks of their lively pale daughters who turn the compost; a priest is rubbing his plowman's hands first one then the other gloved in old reddish black gloves and the protagonist of dreams drinks wine heavy with myrtle and cypress out of a glass cut right from his icy heart. transl. Andrew Seguin
November 7, 2025 at 12:46 AM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
Clouds shift and the light moves.
Overlooking the Fox River, it's softly undulating; yellow maples line the shoreline; mackerel sky Same view but the clouds have parted and the released sun has changed the light yellow maples to deep gold.
November 5, 2025 at 12:34 AM
sparrowpost.bsky.social
Just started this because there's no way I can say no
Cover for Graham Watson's The Invention of Charlotte Bronte
November 4, 2025 at 10:54 PM
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Tarot card sticker of The TBR
November 1, 2025 at 4:45 PM
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A most unexpected mention of Proust (and his father!) while reading Love in the Time of Cholera. The man is everywhere. #AContination25
Cholera became an obsession for him. He did not know much more about it than he had learned in a routine manner in some marginal course, when he had found it difficult to believe that only thirty years before, it had been responsible for more than one hundred forty thousand deaths in France, including Paris. But after the death of his father he learned all there was to know about the different forms of cholera, almost as a penance to appease his memory, and he studied with the most outstanding epidemiologist of his time and the creator of the cordons sanitaires, Professor Adrien Proust, father of the great novelist. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera
November 1, 2025 at 3:52 PM
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a poem I adore for this early evening by Jean Follain
Les Couseuses de livrées Les couseuses de livrées s'arrêtent à la nuit venue attendant qu'on leur donne la lumière voulue. La ville est couverte de neige, alors elles chantent et le passant entend dans la rue sans oiseaux monter chaudes et bien timbrées les voix de ces filles à vêtir les valets et s'en va triste et seul à des tablées fantômes. Jean Follain The Women Who Sew Livery When night falls the women who sew livery stop and wait to be given the light they wish for. The town is covered with snow, it is then that they sing and the passer-by hears in the birdless street the warm clear voices rising from those girls who make clothes for valets and he goes off sad and alone to phantom dinners. Jean Follain, transl. WS Merwin
October 31, 2025 at 10:54 PM
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Halloween's afternoon attire
Looking up at two trees, a locust and maple, both gone yellow.
October 31, 2025 at 9:52 PM