Early Spring: A North American Panorama

In the mountains...



Spring in the Rockies
Columbine peeks from stone beds
snow-melt feeding life


In the prairies...



Lark in the morning
sings in the great golden hall
nature bows in awe
the hushed prairie applauds, sweet
enrapturement takes the breath


In the woodlands...



Wood duck chicks nested
far above the creek below
SPLASH--courage mustered!

The Other Side of Civilized

Twenty-three years of dreaming of western skies—

Where are the vermillion sunsets, like hot coals streaked with crashing waves of magenta? They must be somewhere way out there, where the honey-laced voice of Marty Robbins still recounts a dozen gunfights, a dozen raven-haired senoritas and a dozen wiry broncs. Is it still wild? Do I live in a silver-screen spaghetti western fantasy? Can a man still lay claim to a humble parcel and try his hand at individualism?

The rugged archetypes are gone. Abbey, Muir and Roosevelt have wandered into the lost canyons of history. There are no pine boughs left to sleep under—only 5th wheel trailers ringed by bug zappers. Trails where cougars stalked are worn hard by mountain bikers and ATVS. Men with spandex clothes, $20 water bottles and Lance Armstrong wristwatches are the only danger these days. One struggles to find the American Wilderness because there is a Starbucks behind every waterfall. Camp coffee-pots are as likely to be filled with Pike Place Blend as they are with pine needles or chicory.

Hell, an old Winchester in a cracked leather scabbard would cause incontinence in half the people that you would run into while out adventuring. They don’t see the need for pitted steel and cracked walnut, much less for tarnished brass and dull lead. Likewise, bowie knives—once as common as sunlight—would now lead the public to believe that you are a serial killer. You can’t walk sheep paths in the mountains anymore because they have all ventured up—up and away from the raucous engines and the drunk humors of those that “use” the land for recreation.

Even those who are tasked with preserving nature’s primitiveness don’t know what to do. Streams that once shone star-like with silver shapes of salmon now lay dismal with no dorsal fins to pierce the water’s gurgling surface. But, we’ve got ponds full of hybrid monsters that wouldn’t know upstream from upside down. Bison that roamed both woodland and prairie exist only as domestics: more stock than game. The timber wolves have stirred us—but in a way that we don’t know whether to defend them or destroy them. For eons and eons the native tribes burned and let burn the land in an act of restoration. Now Smokey the Bear makes sure that we don’t let that happen. If this is destiny manifested, we are in dire straits.

Still-Hunting

Bare feet stride slowly,
deliberately feeling
the pulse of our earth
Oneness with the leaf litter
Elven footfalls make no din

Sermon on the Mount

This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.
Grown tired of man’s pageantry for ego’s sake,
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Choirs of geese worship, as this sinner’s soul I search.
No crowd to please or reason to sincerity fake,
this Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.

Christ’s Sermon on the Mount was taught from such a perch.
Light snow whispers liturgy as bowed knees quake.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

I arise renewed—the grand panorama gives cause to lurch.
Testimonies whirl round me in each glistening flake.
This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.

No apostate or hypocrite could this temple besmirch.
Holy Baptismal, each morn, is held reverently in virgin lake.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Come hither, yon saints, and my denomination research.
Hear with me the still, small voice whose Truth I dare not forsake.
This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Night-fishing

Fireflies cavort in
night’s aphotic, velvet shade.
Sundry frogs exhort
the current’s babbled sermon.
Dusk brings summer lessons near.

On the Interview's Eve

Thinking on tomorrow
A host of possible outcomes
They settle not on my mind,
But amidst the hara

Deep breaths expel
the negative remnants of the lesser me
Like November leaves they fly,
And the clarity of fall fills my soul

One good suit in the back of my closet
hides like the doe in the oaken grove
I drape it over and imagine buckskin—
A cloak of confidence in a threatening world

An overpriced tie, all stripes and paisleys
The salesman said it was for “power”
I’m not naïve to believe all that is implied
God and I will make my own destiny

A rust bucket of a truck,
sails over the glassy sea of tarmac
I wonder if it will start
when I am to make my victorious return.

What does it matter after all
whether or not I am to succeed?
I would disappear into the shadows
of a world not confronted by the burden of achievement

Is a measure of devaluing currency
worth a lifetime of treading concrete?
Loam between bare toes appeals to
the untamed and unwashed self

When I speak to the interviewer
with words intended to persuade
I wonder if it is not society
who has in the end beguiled me?

Natural Law

Hunting is elemental.

We trade brass and lead for bone, cedar and steel for flesh.
Life is broken down—simplicity reigns. The struggle resides. Whether the cocked hammer or the bent limb hides in the brush, the plot is no different. The cycle is unstoppable. Nature gives and man takes. Soon it will be his turn to give. A breath is drawn, a breath released. The Earth gracefully turns. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes; the dirt and worm both have a claim. Divine design cannot be eschewed. Nature reigns supreme.

Returning Home

Finally home from a semester's work,
I stretch my legs to December's cold smirk.
The skies foretell of a perfect e'en,
slate blue and heavy with moisture unseen.

I pull on my boots, wool socks and coat,
then cinch up my belt for the fowls' heavy load.
I don my waxed cap and head for water far and remote.
The heavy, tumbling flakes a good hunt forebode.

Weather-worn walnut and bright polished steel,
my shotgun, like a leopard in my hand feels.
She leaps with agility as I mount for sport.
Yet, no bird rises to meet her roaring report.

I tromp through the prairie grass with her alone as my cohort.

I reach the pond dam with daylight to spare.
Breaking my double, I check the pair of high-brassed 4's.
Iridescent green lights the sky as mallards flare.
A day at the university never compares to one on the moors.

The Golden Window

The manner in which one is wakened each morning has a tremendous impact on the way that the day proceeds. Too many of us, unfortunately, are awakened by the obnoxious buzz of an alarm clock or the overbearing tones of a clock-radio. As a result, our days reflect these annoyances. Instead of revealing the smiles that we all keep veiled we snarl and stare and approach life as one whose very existence is an inconvenience to nature. Yet, life does not have to be this way.


I am a great connoisseur of slumber. I rarely have trouble sleeping and make the most out of each opportunity to do so. Yet, Thoreau reminds me that “It is unwise to keep the head long on a level with the feet.” As usual, he is correct. Given the stark settings of the city and its bothersome noises I tend to shut myself up in my abode and sleep until the latest possible hour. But in the country where nature provides the apparatus for waking, there is a different tale to be told.
This morning I lay nestled in my bed, swaddled in comfortable quilts and resting with great peace. I awoke with joy like few people have the opportunity to do. This was my gift from September. The breeze that caressed me as I slumbered told me a story that few people can narrate. Nature is changing. She is coming!
Now, I know that in my pseudo-mystical nature-child rambling I have completely lost you. “She” is the one. Earlier today I would have said that she was my (and many others’) mistress. But, after deeper contemplation that simply would not be befitting. In fact, it is potentially blasphemous. “She” is more than mere words can relate: a muse, a mentor, a lover, a provider. She is the enigma of inspiration, motivation, admiration and adoration.
She is fall. She is coming.





Nature does not tell lies. I have sworn by this and have been called idiotic on several occasions for saying it. The morning breeze today brought the song of a new season from afar. It foretold of change, and beauty, and long-awaited promise. This breeze was tinged with the spirit of ripening apples, of curling chimney smoke, of shaking corn husks and of the song of flights of geese. Likely many of you were up much earlier than I was this morning and did not discern any of these qualities. Nature may not lie to you, but she does dabble in the art of subtlety. Sure, it is 95 degrees now and the sun still beams with an inescapable intensity. Regardless, the wind continues to whip and the secrets of autumn hang like awaiting birds over the crop ready for harvest.





Besides the wind, what else foretells the coming fall? Why, my demeanor, of course! Had I not been rousted by the rejuvenating gale this morn I would like many others stomp and demean the very ground that I walked upon. Summer to me is like a family relative that while not disliked, must be tolerated with some difficulty. No longer! Let them be gone on to greener pastures! My domain is now my own.

Song of the Whippoorwill

A poem of nature and folklore---of me, really!



As I lay fighting the descent of sleep,
A voice, like soothing waters begins to weep.
A dapple grey with mottled wing,
Nature’s own lullaby so sweetly sings
The lament of summer and lofty things,
Like time.

Echoes from my country home,
What spirit roams these woods
And brings to me this enchanting psalm,
Which June alone provides?
I roust and wake and seek her song,
In dew and darkness dwell,
What can this fowl of holler and crick,
mean to raise the frail?

A well worn path I trod and search,
My prying eyes can’t find
This soulful and beguiling bird
Whom flies o’er hill and dale.
Come forth to me,
O Guard of Night,
Whom nature’s secrets keep!
What in thy voice,
Thy riveting tune,
Doth wake me from the deep?

I wouldst not cage thee,
For my own gain,
But suffice to behold thy grace.
Why dost thy fly from oak to pine
The nocturn air to taste?

From on high,
A flittering glance,
A leaf cast by the wind---
Or twas some angel passing by
In haste, abrupt, descend?
Not leaf nor seraph,
But holy fowl,
alights on yonder post,
I kneel to it to hear its plight,
How Will gave up the Ghost.

It speaks to me,
From ages past,
A sage beyond the years:
“Thou shouldst not rise,
with haggard eyes,
in dusk I come to call--
let all men know,
that moons may wane and cities fall,
but nature has no fears".

To really appreciate this poem you have to listen to a Whippoorwill for a bit:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXnnfg1CepE

How beautiful!