8.30.14 Her Hair A Filial Wisp

She began by taking her self apart

cell by inch; the grains of

skin and bone 

everlastings of the migratory

world deep within

Next came her ankles, her knees;

the meniscus perfectly glistening

silver and all tissue and blood

necessary. There were

Nights when the hips perplexed

and the backbone rallied; growing

taut and curved, while it

gave away as a great ship does

bow lifting high in the air

then the whole thing slipping

silently down beneath

Sometime later, as the shoulders 
and arm tendons were released,

the Maker came upon her,

quizzical and grief stricken;

pining "Why oh why this crime? "

But by then, her ears

had turned to dust, her

eyes and tongue lain in

the damp evening sand:

her hair a filial wisp storming
far out among the clouds

8.29.14 In The Meantime

Today, on Fall Over Friday, the four-footeds and I had a day at home, resting and playing and ear scratching and wandering about outside, interspersed with vital things like bone chewing and cat playing and cuddling and reading and inter-species play-fighting, and other important things. 

Early in the morning, it was dry as a bone- very unusual. Virtually no hummingbirds, or butterflies, as we made our way about, barefoot, outdoors, and the sun slowly crested the mountain range, spilling down upon the land and trees and living things amongst us. 

The crows were early visitors, celebrating the dumped compost with great abandon, as a Doe and twin fawns were spotted from the upstairs window by Dante- in shock! They took it in stride, casually making their way down the field, in the midst of his hysterics. 

During this annual flurry of activity, everything outside is making seeds or acorns or egg sacks or beans. A cacophony of reproduction and storage beginning already. Nary a baby bird is around, the families seem to have taken off early for other climates, for some reason, save the Yellow Finches, binging upon seeds of every flower. 

And still, the Coywolves sing and shout every night, and sometimes afternoons, leaving me to wonder if there are more of them; if they've changed the typical size of their clan for some reason.

If the season or environment has changed them, too, in addition to so many herbs not growing this year, so many mushrooms not appearing all over the land this year. This is something many of us know shifts with many seasons, and yet so many factors are different this year, all at once, and I wonder. I simply do.

In the meantime, the land is rich and the harvest coming; the wild grasses topped with what are called their luminescents, which I always find both lyrical and a perfect description of their glistening seeds, no matter that some of them are a pain in the butt weeds. 

And early in the morning? The light flickers on the white clover growing throughout the field, as the early riser bees feed here and there, across the vast ageless land.