Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Coarsegold Creek

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You feel the breeze.
Easy and gentle as a baby's sleeping breath.
The ravages that storms can bring
Don't occur in these parts.
Semi-arid, semi-drought conditions are the norm.

No temperate rainforest for the Sierra's.
Hot, peaceful almost weather to say the least.
With sometimes enough wind to stir the oak leaves and rattle the grasses.
The sound of flags and banners flapping in the wind.
Raised outposts spread upon the southern boundary waters,
Of the mother-lode of the old empires.

As the rains sweep clean the gardens low,
We turn our eyes towards the hills in velvet.
The sound of a thousand bells in the distance.
The fountains welling up in the ephemeral.

Pumping to the heartbeat of the hillsides.
Lifted with the springs as the mountain releases.
Thundering in brooks tumbling over coarse gold.
Reverence brought to the surface.

Sons and daughters racing American Paints
Down evergreen hills christened in succession.
Hoofs shod with rose quartz
To grind the granite and stir the dust.

Generations rushing at our feet
With the power to move mountains.
As if to outrun the words.
Stories of grace and mercy and victory
Following one after another.
Welcoming those who journey West.

Spirit breathes life into these moments.
Floated by the currents and pulled along.
Cooling this furnace fired glaze
That's sealed in hopes and prayers.
Grains showing through the polish.

And as these waters rise,
They gather stones to swirl holes in boulders.
They create light reflecting off the surface,
To shine above the fog settling in the valley.

What is a creek, becomes a river.
Becomes echoes in the wilderness.
Cheers of thanks between deep, deep breaths.
Taking in the cool sweetness of it all.

These seasons turn, and turn once more.
Each time wearing grooves upon the surface.
Making round from what was square.
Bringing peace like a creek born again.

Through glens and dales and hills and streams,
The gardens shake awake from dreams.
To follow down to river bend.
The greens with whitened lace to mend.

For little Dashiell. My brother's boy. Welcome to the world young man.


Button Bush