11.5.14 The Moment Changes

 I was out on the Hadley Fields, relishing the new Protected Wildlife lands, slowly veering from Big Ugly house prospects to, whew, just under the wire, bought up by the local angels, who work and work and raise money and GIVE their own money to stay one step ahead of developers around here, and the unwelcome people farming strange little trees, requiring regular pesticide applications in a place with streams and rivers that has been clean til now , 

 and now the crap will have a 500 year half life, and impact the organs and immune systems of every animal and insect and plant and microbe, not that that occurs to these people, dragging a farm country area out of Eden like this, without a second thought, but still there are more and more signs up and more and more glorious lands protected forever ,


 if nothing else, and I sink into this happiness , as I pull over to take the shot of the dusk curling round the edges if the day, as the beautiful small herd of cows catches sight of me , walking first , and then running , gracefully, slowing as they near , and there's one old bull, and you can see he's revered ,as he is SO washed ,


 the tongue marks visible all over him so much so I wonder if he gets chilled come winter , but there he is, gentle, with a baby boy cuddling up next to him, hiding behind him, from me, as a huge female saunters over to the two of them, very washed herself , tongue marks all over her , 

which makes me wonder if it feels good, like frequent back rubs, or in fact us mildly irritating, possibly the endured responsibility of the alpha female , which I suspect she is, 

as she sidles up to the bull and the baby, and the bull offers up his head to be washed by her, and I see her pause and then saying " No , honey , you wash ME " 

and instead extends her own neck, so the bull gives in and washes her and cuddles til the baby pulls up  

and it's a group cow hug, the three of them, 

 til more and more cows of all ages and sizes make their way to me, 

and I begin massaging their heads and they seep into nirvana and I notice some with gooey eyed viruses and drain their lymph, as they begin to get it , 

 turn their heads this way and that, extending their necks for the lymph work, 

 then some lovely head massages; now they're crowding in, curious, most of them wanting some rubs, 

 til the geese pass by over head, honking , 

and a murmur if Starlings hanging in the next protected plot over , hundreds of them , take flight for some exercise and practice, working it,  

and the cows all look up as I do  

 and then, the moment changes, we all feel it,

and they turn almost as one ,  

 realizing there is no food delivery here-

yeah the company and rubs were nice,  

 and they turn and walk back to their rich pasture.

11.3.14 Voting and Butterflies

I know our governing is a complex, top heavy creature,
 full of inequity, fraud and machinations.

 Still, whenever I have ever gone to vote? 
I swear, I get butterflies in my stomach.

11.4..14 Out Back, The Air Is Warm

Out back, the air is warm, the breeze slight, the wildlife easy. 
Except for the hunters, readying forays into every place not well posted. 
There is a large flock of Juncos, that is playing. Fluttering from stately elder Aspen , down to the fields, all disappearing somehow within the glasses, feeding, then one by one initiating , so that the flock sweeps up and about and about in the air, so gracefully and happily, coming to light upon the Aspen again. And then? Again down. Back-and-forth.
I sit in a chair out back of the house, Dante on a long leash, watching the trees slowly shift through fall.
Watching the cloud cover change, as it slips silently by overhead.
Watching the newest crop of adolescent crows, with their slender young bodies and fingered wing tips, stagger by slowly, in smaller and then larger groups, possibly 100 of them. Young. Preparing for the winter they know nothing of.





I watch as Dante discovers that the elegant old Maple, sick and rotting and cut down this summer, has a stump that has composted well. 
That he can dig into the center of it with great satisfaction, grabbing with his great canine teeth upon one part or another, making excellent headway. 
Scaring himself now and again, as the dug dirt flicks upon the house, or the gutter, looking to me for reassurance - then getting back to work, once again.
Taking up the old roots that extend over the top of the grass, pulling, breaking them, digging them up. Great satisfaction for the genes of a working dog, I know.
As the day seamlessly lengthens, As I look over and notice all the things that are still green in the gardens, and too , the things that have been carefully touched by small frost. 
I sit, and imagine how in time, the whole field, replete with its sick tics, will be covered with snow, and I can unleash Dante, as I did with Shiva, before him, and on cold winter days, we can trudge off through the snow, and go exploring in the woods and out waters.
Possibly because I rest, and do not work, it does not seem like yesterday that spring came upon us. 





It does not seem like yesterday that it was summer. 
It seems that yesterday was the day before today, as November was being ushered in. 
And where we are now? Is no surprise. No days or time list, nor surprises of. 'Oh, is it already ....". 
I suppose this is born of the extravagance inherent in the resting life. The absolute immersion into each and every day. Almost each and every moment.
Devoid of the obligations, the exhaustion's, the enduring of supervisors or organizations or companies who make no sense to us. Long hours that tire our bodies and hearts and minds.
Of course, I was very blessed. To ,in the past,have work that was always a pleasure, a never ending series of mysteries, somehow resulting in increased health and ease for clients galore, with no benefits. No retirement. No sick time. No insurance, oh, and no boss.
So, no, it didn't make a lot of sense , practically. But in terms of loveliness? Satisfaction? Fascination? Certainly a remarkable gift.
Now, the season of embodiment ; of restoration. 
The gift of long days, of solitude versus loneliness. Of peace versus lack of substance and challenge. 
Always, two sides of the very same coin. Always, the yin and yang of our lives.

11.4.14 Not A Hint In The Air

   We arrive at Kestrel Lane, getting out of the car, passing the effervescent and invasive silver backed Olive tree's leaves, as they flutter hypnotically to the ground.
   A few puddles here and there, but dryer. A nice warm 50° November day, to go wandering, before hunting season, which begins after Thanksgiving.
   I spend my time wandering down the lane, finding old rusty metal fence posts, and wiggling them out of the ground, out of the roots of trees that they harm. Laying them on their side, along the path.
   Dante works, too. Jumping into the brush, pulling out the largest heaviest branches he can find, then tugging them down the lane with him, or racing with them held high, fascinated by the movements they create, almost as if alive.
   We come upon a somber place, where somebody caught and killed a Partridge. The beautiful feathers blown by the morning breeze. Interesting, because somebody also defecated right on the pile of feathers. And it's early. So it's all wild. Looks wild.
   Usually we're alone back here, but as we walk further back into the fields and forest, I suddenly catch a distant glimpse of a black-and-white dog, running. Fast.
   I sidle over to Dante, l's lip the leash on his harness. Turn, and look again. And they're there, orange coat, orange hat: a hunter.
   The time of being here is done, until after Christmas.
   The time of being behind my own house, and the conservation fields, will be done too.
   Hunters flock to the area. The government releases all of these partridges and pheasants, absolutely clueless as to survival, and the hunters descend soon after.
   Kind of a 'Cheney shooting his friend in the foot as the idiots get driven to a field where caged, never flown birds get released, and the great white hunters bang away. 'Only a bit better.
   We walk rapidly back to the car, still pausing to pull out a few more rusty fence stakes, dragging a few more exceptionally long branches with glee.
    The sky overcast. The colors magnificent and fading.
    Not a hint in the air of any sort of winter coming, at all .

11.4.14 Ane Brun ,Changing Seasons

"The relief of spring
intoxication of summer rain
the clearness of fall
how winter makes me reconsider it all " 
Ane Brun

11.3.14 Succumb and Dream

Like tethered wings, you reach behind my tethered hands
And bring about a part I could not see
And though the dusk throws darkness across the land
closing my eyes, I dream what you have seen

It changes and it twists upon itself
almost as if set upon by something from without
And as this appears illusory
too, lies , scorned of doubt

You pull upon my tethered hands and press
your beaked mouth gently along my neck
as slowly flower feathers from between
til, settled in love , by love we succumb and dream

11.1.14 When Was It A Dream?

When Was It A Dream?

Everywhere I go you hold up

far more than I ;  you keep the

parts of the day coming and coming, the

Daybreak cresting, right on cue, with the

calibration of sun shifting across the sky while ancient

Stories of how the earth actually moves , itself

kept to a disconsolate murmur . You go

hold up the life and the stars and the bills  ; you

Take hold of specifics, necessities, logistics -while I

stand by, asking, ‘Do you remember the powerful woman I once

was?  Taking charge, vibrant, sensuous; and

raising children and Inventing ways to

Heal conditions while spinning

plates on long sticks,  on the side -many of them.

Racing about to keep them from toppling :

always smiling to the audience.

Stone cold smile. Facing the audience. Now only I

topple and turn,  roll sideways trying to

Keep out from under your feet as you

arrange storm windows, shining clean, and

organize the yard mysteriously with

leaf blowers and paint the tenant’s wall .As i

Crawl into an obsequious ancestry of

grave history. Of

 inconsequential circumstance .I am

Calling out to you , now – calling .

My voice softened by time, by use: I am

trying to reach and search and find you;  to grasp my

strong arms; my own thrilling will;  but they

Seem to be veering off into hillsides

a will of their own; all that was. As I

look on, confused, stark  in my own dusk ;

the dusk of my own making. As those

Stars thrum far above me far

out in the broken fields , laid out below, as it

occurs to me to glance down in some

incalculate moment to find my

tiresome hands straining to hold

nothing but themselves.