Monthly Archives: October 2015

YEAR OF THE BEAR

 

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1.

Don’t care,
go anywhere,
eat anything—leave little

evidence behind, but
barefoot tracks,
whole berries in black scat.

 
2.

Drought and fire,
slim pickin’s high,
bears lumber off the mountain,

hundreds in canyons
trying to make a living
on damn few acorns—

grubbing for bugs,
trashing trash cans
taking pets and an occasional calf.

Shaggy invaders
from the past
like science fiction.

 
3.

Oso,
Ursus arctos
own the moonlit mountain town
on Halloween,
rummage door to door,
wait on the porch for more
of anything to eat.
Trick or treat.

 

DARK LIGHT

 

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Errant gods return
to paint earth and sky, bring
dark light after dry.

 

AFTER THE STORM

 

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The birds sleep later now,
new guests in boughs without nests,
overwintering—coyotes and bobcats

hunt late in the morning chill
as we wait for sun
to break the ridge line,

eager and easy into the day
now that it’s rained
enough to start the grass,

settle four years’ dust—
cotyledons claim puddle mud,
arms open to new light.

 

Common Milkweed Bug?

 

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Thanks to all who’ve helped identify the above. After perusing Google photos of Milkweed Bugs and Box Elders, I am still unable to find an exact match. The closest is the Small or Common Milkweed Bug. None of the Google photos show the three little dots down the center of the back on about half of these bugs. They were still at the rain gauge yesterday, 1.65″, plenty to start the grass.

 

Thank you Sue St. Martin (Facebook) for the following link, a perfect match:

Scantius aegyptius (Hemiptera: Pyrrhocoridae)

Invasive species from Southern California, we can color in Tulare County on their map.

 

Ladybird (bug) Beetle?

 

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Behaving much like ladybugs exiting the ground around the post that holds our rain gauge at the corrals in Greasy last Saturday, I am assuming they are one of 5,000 species of Ladybird Beetles I wasn’t able to identify. No macro, using the point and shoot, click to enlarge the unusual patterns.

 

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On Horehound, October 17, 2015

 

Feedback from Facebook identifies these as Box Elder bugs.

 

WRITING A STORM

 

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Metal roof
machine gun fire,
strobe lightening
and rolling thunder:

cracks rip black
with jagged light,
redbud silhouettes
dance with the dark

               like the Fillmore,
               like the Shrine—
               endless bass
               rocks the canyon,

canons bark with flame
and the war goes on and on.

               Moist breath,
               eager heart electrified
               not to be contained
               within old skin.

               On stage:
                              the Doors
                              Janis Joplin wild with
                              Jimi Hendrix crescendos.

Last flashes break with dawn.
Inch-seventeen all in the ground—
she hasn’t lost her touch
with how to make it rain.

 

DAWN ON THE MOUNTAIN

 

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October slips away from the sun
sliding south down the ridgeline
after a quick rain clears
               the air,
settles summer’s dust,
erases tracks
               for a day:

                              another beginning
                              to another adventure—
                              nearly 25,000 now.

No calls from beyond
Sulphur Peak:
                              old friend
to generations waking
from dreams and restless sleep.

On top in the brush
a 2” x 2” surveyor’s pole,
a Challenge Butter buck
               not quite in rut.
Spring poppy overlay of gold
winter cap of snow—
               never naked,
always changing clothes.

                                        ~

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: “(Extra)ordinary”

 

RAINY SEASON

 

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Glass in-hand,
we toast the dark morning’s
thunder and lightning
to the afternoon rumble
of another trace
from gray skies.

We have grown older
waiting—wishing, hoping,
praying to any god to hear—
for this time of year
when it might rain.

 

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BEYOND LOCKS

 

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Fence posts and barbed wire:
obstacles for honest people,
may their tribe increase.

 

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REQUIEM FOR THE BLUE OAKS, 2015

 

December 2014

December 2014

 

Skeletons and broken limbs, old friends
of two or three centuries passing seasons
in one another’s shade, listening

to fathers telling sons how to survive.
Clumps of brown and yellow mistletoe
hang from arms like grapes becoming raisins,

all giving-in and giving-up their ghosts,
their loosening bark in lieu of acorns
to this bear invasion as the canyons

and draws crawl with shaggy scavengers
after the war is over—as the slowly fading
wounded watch, brittle roots without water.

This old girl will never be the same,
not reclaim her lush good looks
for generations that will never know

the difference nor her endless bounty.
Nothing stays the same beyond the void
of emptiness—everlasting, ever changing.

 

October 14, 2015 - Greasy, Horse Lot

October 14, 2015 – Greasy, Horse Lot