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.
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
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.
The birds begin to think in pairs
as these old hills begin to breathe
soft green from crusty brown.
Two young blackbirds inspect
last year’s redwood limbs
to house the colony, safe-haven
from crows and ravens, easy
to defend. Two by two, the quail
titter down garden trails
too cold to plant. The crimson
chests of finches gleam before
drab ladies on the railing
when not picking at
old nests in the roof beams,
half-heartedly. Too early yet
for songs of love and making
babies when these old hills
have just begun to breathe.
Mt. Tamalpais – L.E. Rea (1868-1927)
…the cold passion for truth
Hunts in no pack.
-Robinson Jeffers (“Be Angry at the Sun”)
It is an art
not to be swept up
in the turbulence,
not to fear the storm
of words etched
in electric thunder,
when our ear drums can’t
quit reverberating
with the latest blow
from a hundred anvils
busy reshaping the truth
to fit the moment.
It is an art to savor silence,
to listen to where it leads
to what you know.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2018
Tagged L.E. Rea, Mt. Tamalpais, poetry, Robinson Jeffers
Low snow on the steep ground,
a slow melt soaking slopes
for Golden Poppies and wild lavender.
Still on the rise, the old man
hasn’t left his post looking down
upon us, the floods and droughts.
Born forty million years ago,
he’s seen the worst of weather
changes—few things as sure today.
drycrikjournal 