Dec. 7, 2009

Boding

Some people in this part of the world predict autumn's
arrival by acorns (when they fall), others by peacocks
(when the male's feathers leave his body), but my own
system relies on the tarantula. And today I saw my first.

Dusk is the time that the light, darkish beast - like a moving
eclipse - carries himself down the road, a caravan of one.
Eight elbowy legs. Huge hairy heart. Though today was hot,
this indicates to me that Fall is putting on her shoes & hat.

Other signs have to do with sound. It seems to travel too,
carrying unintentional news of the neighbours to me, across
the drained creek and tired flat. From quite a far distance
I hear pots, a door closing, laughter like a tall flower, dogs.
If two tarantulas were to mate I would probably hear it.
And it is likely that right now my cousin, over in Rosie's
cottage, can hear me turning pages in the dark.

Two Waters

The Service of Summer seems quick to begin.
Congregations of spearmint & blackberry once
again approach the banks of the creek as if
preparing to bathe the stones. Last lavendar
wildflowers fall apart on the shady hillsides.
One windmill perspires & the grass turns gold
blade by blade. We people make offerings of
thanks to a new well: stronger water, rustless
water. The jars on the railing are an account
of the after & before, as collected by Papa Lou
on the spring morning of the switchover,
our agua inaugural, short and sweet.

Dowsing!

We Are Between Storms

Today the sun has flashed in and out
like a knife being sharpened. The trees
appear anemonic, each branch & twig a line
you want to protect or stay away from.
Around noon I go into the closet and take
down two coat hangers. One holds a pale
blue sleeveless workshirt, old, recognizable
as a flag. I put on the shirt and unbraid
the hooks of the hangers before cutting them
with wire cutters, aiming for the shapes of Ls,
the long part about a foot and a half.
These two tools I bring with me down into
the flat, a wire loosely in each hand.
I begin to pace the grasses & stones
embedded in the hooved mud, trying not
to trounce the infinitesimal shiny chocolate
mushrooms rising from old shit. I walk with
the coat hangers like hip-high antennae.
As I move & stop the wires seem to think for me,
to pause and mull on place. Then sometimes they
pull toward each other, the tips crossing in
an inexorable X, and I take note when the wire
in my left hand swings wide as a dog's tail.
I am looking for the spot for our new well.