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.

Life of Riley

I have been gone all winter.
Come back to the grass greened up
and the creek running like a thief.
I leave the radio off for three days,
just to hear the sound of him escaping
through the night, tripping on rocks
and swiping trees, heading it seems
for Cumpania, Yaqui Camp & onward.

Meanwhile late winter holds evidence
of spring. Up the hill spittle-wet
calves contemplate gravity, calm mama.
One new white goose flew. And Athena
the jobless herd-dog, lonely or hungry
or demented, daily crosses the creek
and tries to transform us into sheep.
It is difficult to appease her.

Late Notes

BUCKEYES HAVE FALLEN, still shiny.
Lost 3 trees this autumn to the wind & dry.
First frost Oct 10th. Some rain while I was away,
week before election. Obama sign still hanging
on barn - no one took it! Tonight the taurus moon
rose in a lapis sky, like a bucket full of gold spit.

Fall Hunger

The deer have thus far eaten
the Valerian (a sedative), the Motherwort
(a heart tonic), and entirely all of the Italian
Basil (a popular Calaveritas intoxicant).
They are now getting to work on the Angelica,
who happens to be the guardian of my
garden, so they'd better watch it.

Naked Ladies & New Birds

Through the walkingness of evening
two new peacocks step inside the cerulean
footcreases of their forebears & rustle up
astonished bugs. Yes it's true:

Cousin Casey has brought back
the totem animal of this town. And already
the male is risking life & wing to admire
his plumage in the car bumpers. Keep
all chrome away from him.

In the last two weeks I've been robbed
& rear-ended, and someone marauded
my sugarbaby watermelons. I feel sorta
like a marauded melon myself -- seedy,
pulpy, cooked by August.

So water & belongings retreat. The creek
pulls in like a pantleg, dangling turtles.
Rocks the color of fog. A sift of wind.
On the edges of dried things naked ladies
pose, whose muscular pink flowers seem
to erupt fully-formed from leafless stalkings.

And there are still blackberries, whose roots
once cured an entire Indian village of dysentary.
Above-ground they form walls, viney railroads
ferrying fruit, & also fortresses for the coveys
of quail who land in them at nightfall,
wheeling, musical.

Hanging laundry at 11, the moon
red as a pink tomato: I put on
a damp dress while I fold.

As the old yarn goes, "It's 107
in the shade and there ain't
no shade--"

Well, today there wasn't
any shade but that's because
there wasn't any sun.

Smoke snuck in
like a gray wildcat, drove
all color outta town.

But hot enough to suck
water from the creek's
mouth, straight.

Dancehall Garden