Monthly Archives: October 2021

WATER

                                    Around here all the gods live in trees.

                                                – Jim Harrison (“The Whisper”)

 

It’s been tough on the woodpeckers: dry year,

no acorns in the oaks, yet

they still flap and squabble over bugs in the bark.

 

I can’t see the owls in the dark of dawn

as I wait for the black to disappear, yet

their mournful presence is good company.

 

Robbin likes the flock of little bushtits

flitting tree to tree, or washing-up at six o’clock

when the timer sprays the Mexican Sage.

 

Above it all, they’re smarter than the rest of us

to fly where they want—or most needed.

But around here we irrigate the trees.

TWENTY DAYS (part 2)

2.

Drought and dust,

pandemic and the masks

we need to breathe and feed—

 

day’s end cloaked in smoke

and gin—how tough are we

and every living thing

 

looking to escape

to a Li Po poem

and Chinese tapestry?

TWENTY DAYS

1.

I can taste the pines and cedars when I awake

to fuzzy black to search for stars

beyond, hoping for a clear day.

 

Choking smoke with my coffee,

with feeding cows and first-calf heifers

calving, faded coyotes close.

 

Ash falls like snow, skiffs light and dirty.

In this haze, it’s easy to get lost at home.

I track my steps to where I’m from.