Old Rhythms Ring Anew

The earth hums in deep rumble
As the morning sun crests the ridge
Shedding light but for a moment
Before whispering clouds take hold

Breezes wisp the new green grasses
And chatter through the creek side brush
Hoof steps stomp upon the dusted path
As the powdered rifle booms loud and true

Scraping leather as the knife is drawn
Slicing skin and tendons crisp and smooth
Bones snap under directed pressure
The load is lifted with a heave

Autumn rusts red in the hollows
Leaves find their home upon the stone
Camp smoke slowly sifts through the woods
As the axe echoes keep the time

Muffled language is spoken from a distance
Joyous utterings laced with smiles
Acorn meal sifted in baskets
Slushes with water and dashed with salt

Flames contained cause hisses and pops
Sizzling fresh meat and herbs aloft
Scattered snowflakes fall softly silent
Building slowly among the rocks

The foragers' feast rolls merrily along
As rhythms old and new join in harmony


Today the world welcomes Little Boy Boyer
My cousin's kid
May the old paths become your own
And may the ancient rhythms guide you through

Time Once Again

Awaken with the nip of frost on the nose
The warm blankets make you stay awhile
And ponder baked bread and apples
Sugar glaze coated to keep the heat
Hot soup in a mug - 'Nuff said

The first rays of the morning sun
Silently take the crystals from the frozen dew
And warms the mushroom's amber ooze
On new fairae ring outcroppings

The rustling of leaves
Across the sodden must soaked earth
Deepens the woods in orange brown rolling waves
The growing scents of woodsmoke
Blend the room note and mingle
In large expanses of clean chilled air

The hatchet gleams in the woodpile
And waits to be buried deep in the grain
Time to forgive summer for bearing down
Time to take the beating rain
Upon the back with delight
Time to let the light
Shed in beams through gray clouds

Time to let new eyes
Gaze upon the world in autumn's grace
Time for children to play among the corn fields
While the scarecrows gossip of warnings to all

Time has come again
And turned the harvest pumpkin to the vine
And turned the woodchuck
To his humble shelter amongst the pine
Where he'll stay buried
Wrapped in luxuriant furs for as long as time allows

Virga

Crowned Virga paid a visit the other day
Lingering overhead all morning
Shining bright yellows and golds
In the clear sunrise over the Sierras
Fading to wispy whites as the sky blued

Virga
Sounds like some ancient teasing goddess of rainfall
Floating through the air just aloft
Draped in a sheer shimmering gown
On her way home among the high mountain groves
Then vanishing without a trace

She plays her sorrowful tunes
Tugging at dried heart strings
Somber harmonies that slowly burst open
Only to evaporate in the sublime

Her moisture dripping forth
Though her wetness remains skybound
Always wanted but unattainable
Never quite making it to coat her dry congregation

Whirlwind columns of granite and marble
Dust pillars of her worship temples
March in droves across the plains
Tabernacles on the move
Reaching up to appease the goddess
To let down her gown upon the floor
And wash away the temple walls
Cleansing the summer's flaming sins

Her sermons never reaching low enough
To bless the faithful hearts of her following

The Dusted Oaks

Dust on the roads of the American West
Parched earth and air in hazy sunsets
Soil and seeds long to be quenched
To drive away drought that's been here since

Dry October lingering on
Dust to mouth until the dawn
Dream of days that're now long gone
Return once more to sing a song

It'll be here soon enough
Until then to show how tough
Chaps the hide leathers too rough
These blue skies show winter's bluff

Oaks on hills driven to their brink
Early signs their time's extinct
To quag in mires among the stink
Their heads hung low, their hearts did sink

The dust weighs heavy in its place
The haze that rises into space
From the depths of wallows and the wastes
To fall back down as if from grace

For in every little stir the dust does blow
Softly dancing spreads to and fro
It lives on and continues to grow
When the end only heavens will know

Hardscrabble Lampwicks

Peace in the oaks and tickly pokes
From stickly grasses and puncture sticks
Soft late afternoon sunlight of autumn
Bringing mellow soothings warming the woods
Just enough to emanate the savory scents
From the hardwoods and pines

The woodpeckers' wood lot work shop
Which rings of knocks in hard stalks
Busy burrowing pine nuts and acorns
In holey larder racks and dark shelves
Hidden tucked away in their woody depths

Storekeepers of the woodlands
Who enjoy their sweet cakes in the mid-winter chill
Enemies of the manor foxhounds
If they get so bold as to invade
And make it their pantry of dry food stuffs

Spooky giant Halloween forewarners
Begin their deep woods creep
Spreading fear across the land
In a migration of dreadful abomination
Terrors if you find one on your pants leg

But in their hideous truth
They are not concerned with you
Do not wish to crawl with all eight legs
Digging into your suddenly rising skin
That shrieks with the horror of spiny hair

They wish to rather leave you alone
And seek only the companionship
That females alone can give

Yearning for the ecstasy before the agony
In a frenzy of love drunk intoxicated delirium
Of being eaten alive by their lover
After seeding a new generation

Answers we can't comprehend
To the questions in the dust dry hills
Laced with oak and manzanita tangles
And dark shadowed corridors
Lit with the bright boulders of the harvest moon
Hardscrabble lampwicks of the night

Found A New Winter Camp

Took a few hours on Saturday to scout around for another spot to camp out and play around in the colder months. Fall is here, and the winter snows will soon blanket the high country. While the snows open up different possibilities for outdoor adventures, they close off many at the same time. Gates get locked and roads get buried by snow and ice, much like most of the public land around here now is closed off in this recent government shutdown. With these things in mind, I thought I had better find an area that's local with easy access. So I spent a few late afternoon hours tramping around the foothill woodland around my in-law's place.

New growth brought on by the first rains of the season.

The famous Mother Lode played out this far south. This is the place of Coarsegold Creek, Finegold Creek, and outcroppings of rose quartz dot the land.

Deer tracks and the coyote that follow.

Czech Rucksack. Just what I've been looking for in a daypack.

It's tarantula ....errrr....uhmmm..... migration season, and they're on the move.

Just past their property line I found what I was looking for. It's got the makings for a nice winter camp. Large rock wall that will reflect a campfire's heat back towards my shelter. Good, large, gently sloped area that with a little leveling will be suitable for ground sleeping within distance of the fire's warmth.

So after a little clearing the grass and stickly weeds away, the site was looking a little more habitable, where the winter's rains will bring up new fresh green growth.

Yet as the sun went down, I realized what the thoughts in the back of my mind were telling me. Even though this site is within shouting distance from the in-law's house, this was not their land. It was the neighbor's who may want to build a house on it in future years. And if I were to camp here in the winter time, with a long fire against this rock wall, surely the rock would be scorched and covered with soot. Thus, I would be permanently scarring their land. So, I decided maybe a smaller fire away from the wall would be better suited for this campsite. This way no scarring would occur that couldn't be grown over.

Either way, it appears that this land will make a fine place to fight off the chill, and let the woods soak in.

Slow Cookin'

Need to slow down more often
Slow the thoughts
And calm the mind

Saunter along the wood's game trails
Sit and listen
To the mossed glade's soft lullaby's
To the lakeside waves
Lapping the shoreline

Well fed, well rested
Well of rejuvenation bubbling up
Slowly from within at a slow roll
Of releasing heat stress

Good to slow down here and there
Here in the kitchen table sunlight
And there under the pines and blue sky

Slow down to the water's edge
Trickling spring high on the mountainside
Cool clean water
Easing out of it's rocky casings

Drink it's liquid
In the morning first thing
As the sun rises from down canyon

New Silver Fir cones
Glowing emerald sheen in the morning dew
Slow like the oozing sap
That shimmers at it's own pace

Recipes for Respite

Listen to the wind whipped willows
Waving to and fro
Pay attention to the sounds
Of gusts upon the grades

What do you see
When you gaze upon the waves in the grasses
Rolling forever uphill
Pushed with purpose into a sprint
To be first in line
To gaze upon jagged lofty peaks
And succumb to the visual overload
Of the hanging valley glacial remains

How does the water feel
As it cooly rushes by your hot flushed face
Forever churning down river smoothed granite troughs
Polished through the ages

Ease your worried mind
Rest easy and let the woods
Seep through your pores
And soak in filling 'til buoyancy

Don't mind the storm clouds
That gather overhead
For they only look dark and ominous

Let the afternoon rain
Drench you 'til chilled
Then sit by the sheltered campfire
And chase away the cold

Poke a few logs into coals
And let their glow sooth your soul

Cast your stones
Into the boulder strewn river
In the pitch black of night
As the stars above weave their spellbound tales

Brew some coffee
Let the stew boil
Until it's time to feast

Listen to the whispering pines ramble on
Let the angels' harmonies
Win out over the demon's torment

Let the feeling lull you to sleep
Under warm fireside blankets

Gold Dust

Sunrise rays through the dust
Of freshly plowed under corn stalks
Dull golden shine
On sparkling speckles in the haze

The harvest reaping
Of toils and tillings
Fill the larders
With flakes of grain trimmings
To feed the beasts

Fresh sunrise on cotton boles
Ripe with blue jean comforts
Half shaded in the new light muted tan
Waiting for the leaves to drop as well

Silage trucks line the fields
Sitting empty and silent
Waiting with coffee in hand
To have their loads filled

Crows in the oaks conspire overhead
Yelling and blasting incoherent jokes
Poking fun at the plow's straight rowed turnings
Revelling in this year's acorn grub crop
As being much greater
Than last year's rotational feastings

Hollowed paths among the oaks
Beckon for the weary traveler
To follow down dusted lanes and ditch bank alleys
Spotted with those dilapidated habitations
Old red barn ruins
And little white shanties long forgotten

School children released
To the fields of play
When the afternoon bell reverbs

Drifting into friendly interaction
In the dreamy afternoon sun
Shining through high thin clouds
In a soft toned down shine
White like the heaven of childhood memories
In the early autumn days