Upon reflection,
sky becomes a cooler blue
and the hills less steep.
I was about eleven years old when the US Army Corps of Engineers began construction on Terminus Dam, named, I presume, for the end of the Visalia Electric Railroad line where a resort of sorts was established at Terminus Beach for local music and all-night dancing during the summer. There was also a nine hole sand golf course in the area of this irrigation pond, north of the river, that was accessed by a footbridge across the Kaweah during the 30s. All was erased during the 1955 Flood. The family was embroiled in a Condemnation Action with the Federal government shortly thereafter. Construction was completed in 1962.
Currently at less than 25% capacity because of the drought, it was unnerving for me as a teenager working downstream when Lake Kaweah was full.
Over boulders, we pick our way for months,
pressing cobbles into sand like pavement,
two trails under wheels with bales of hay
when the creek dries up. But when it rains
enough to fill the channel, we must feel
our way through loosened rocks like braille.
Seldom better or worse, no smooth progress
holds, just a spot where we can cross
the creek—a steady equilibrium stirred
for years—we begin again, our presence
beneath killdeer circling, forever crying
overhead, erased—each season fresh.
Flowers beautiful,
but seeds can kill, or leave you
talking with the gods.
Flower Friday
Posted in Haiku 2015, Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged Datura inoxia, Devil's trumpet, flower-friday, Indian Apple, Jimson weed, loco weed, lovache, moonflower, nacazucul, scared datura, Thorn Apple, toloache
Between here and the road, the intermittent
sound of summer cars across blond pastures,
fat black cows grazing, lazing in shadows—
a gentle world where coyotes pass and pause
for a squirrel, a bobcat trains her babies,
and crows raid bird nests for their own.
Snake bit, your mother’s inside dog is gone
to meet her, yet I still leave the sticky door
ajar, listen while I dress for his awakening.
Between here and the road, we see what we want,
watch naked skeletons of oaks come alive, and
long-limbed sycamores dance in an orgiastic tangle.
We can feel these hillsides breathe, hear
the heartbeat underneath. Not since the natives
has this place told so many stories.
First thing every morning
I think of you making coffee
San Francisco strong, and pray
that a few of our wild gods
go with you on city sidewalks.
I fill the paper filter
that holds the grounds together
with one less scoop than you,
then add a half
to remember you by.