It could be Climate Change
or a changing of the guard,
an East Coast winter without end—
a sky full of harbingers,
floating clips of recycled news
fishing for the self-righteous
with seasoned bits of drama.
In one hand we hold Chekhov’s
mirror on our modern world.
Or are the clouds obfuscation,
each changing shape
of our imagination: our addiction?
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2018
Tagged Anton Chekhov, climate change, photography, poetry
Evening shadows climb after rain
around the equinox of dark and light
on Sulphur’s face. My plural we,
all our eyes look up for an expression,
for a hint of the future on the horizon,
beneath the last of gray cumulus
when the green grass seems golden—
almost heavenly when the granite
stacked could be pillars of marble.
How could it seem any other way
after months of no rain? How much
closer to the gate can we imagine?
Not far off, the blackbirds squire
the females, tail-feathers fanned,
wings outstretched a stride behind.
Not far off, the green begins to flower,
wild buds waiting to burst into color,
tender leaves of oaks unfurl on twigs.
The crow pair check the squirrel towns
for blind babies and high on the ridges
the black dots of cows and calves
grazing undisturbed close to heaven.
No one needs us for this moment
in our dreams—we are released.
Not much to do for the past three days but watch it rain, over four inches in the past ten days.
It’s a warm, 67 degrees with another half-inch in the gauge since this morning, bringing our total rainfall to over six inches for the month of March. Prior to February 26th, rainfall was 25% of normal. More due tonight.
The talons of a Golden Eagle
squeeze a squirrel beneath
the blades of pasture green
not far from the screen door
I close quietly behind me. A second
lands beside the first to begin
the meal. Several shades of bronze
shimmer in mid-day flight
as the first leaves the second
to eat alone—long flap of wings,
sure and purposeful. Sweet partnerships
grow wild, yet sometimes seem more
civilized than what we see among men.
Perhaps the Bird and Animal people
placed devotion, the selfless heart
into the tribe they created—or perhaps
we learned what we now claim
exceptional from birds and animals.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2018
Tagged Creation Myth of the Yokuts, Golden Eagle, partnerships, photography, poetry, Redbud
Touch of Irish green,
rainbow rising from the creek,
canyon rich with luck.
Somewhere along the way,
I lost my anger for mankind,
that loud and profane passion
felt on dear faces, remembering
how the deep incisions
bled for days. They said
it was the war, the retreat
as unknowing bait
in the Battle of the Bulge,
keeping the men and machinery
together in the frozen snow.
Perhaps I am too old to care,
too far way to threaten
weathermen and politicians
preening before the camera crews.
I’ve lost my outrageous luster—
but as long as I’m alive,
I’ll hear stories I don’t recognize.
Between rains, he takes the high post
to watch for hawks slicing the low sky
as she inspects the garden below
tittering from the frost-bitten lantana
to the volunteer artichokes exploding
with long green fronds and leafy fruit.
Little cover for a nest, the bare ground
waits for seed. They have paired, it is spring.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2018
Tagged California Valley Quail, photography, poetry
Add water to dirt
and wait for another rain
again and again.
