To Autumn 

by John Keats

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
        Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
    Conspiring with him how to load and bless
        With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
    To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
        And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
            To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
        And still more, later flowers for the bees,
        Until they think warm days will never cease,
            For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Spring & Chloe are here

But when spring comes, the ice melts. The quality of water has never really disappeared, even in the deepest depths of winter. It just changed form. The ice melts, and the essential fluid, living quality of water is there.

The essential good heart and open mind of bodhicitta is like that. It is here even if we're experiencing it as so solid we could land an airplane on it.

Pema Chodron

Giving Thanks

It seems the only time I sit to write is when we all have a few days off and the quotidian pieces of our lives receed for a moment. What is left is these fine boys full of invention, kinetic fun to be had. A pot full of melted beeswax on the stove, courting the light as the days grow shorter.

Ode to a Bull Snake

 
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Ode to a Bull snake

Little incandescent jewels in a tidy spring nest. Five of them, nestled, waiting, blue as the afternoon sky.

The mother robin had made the nest on a perilous beam above the river and my father put up a mesh guard to ward off the curious cat.

On the day that they hatched, the children and I were visiting. We could not believe the helpless display of those pink, featherless, blind creatures- completely at the mercy of their mother’s know how at hunting and keeping them warm. Much to our surprise, the tenacity of life kept those little creatures alive long enough so that all eventually opened their eyes to behold the sunny mesh of the trees overhead, the swaying green of May.

Next time we saw them, there were only two. The sad fact being that there wasn’t actually worm enough or room enough in the nest for all 5. We avoided thoughts of the 3 being shoved out of the nest and then flushed downstream but the flood of snowmelt that is the St. Vrain this time of year. Instead we focused on the two that remained- newly feathered, shiny yellow gullets open to receive the bounty of the soil, eyes blinking at us as we peered at them from the bridge. A swell of delight and something akin to pride at their progress from still blue orbs to demanding baby robins.

As things go, we are not the only admirers. We usually see the bull snake a few times a season- gorgeous lattice patterns on its baseball bat fat body- 6 feet at least and full of purpose.

The snake too, saw those babies.

By the time my father saw him he was coiled 3 feet above in the chokecherry and draped down, head into the nest. He grabbed a push broom, still dusty from the shop and tried to distract the snake that came up, one baby in its mouth.

In a flurry that is at the heart of all tragedy and humanness, there is an attempt to undo what has already been done. To change reality, to better it.  Deus ex machina on hunger’s destiny.

My father and a friend actually rest the little bird from the maw of the snake by holding him down behind his large diamond shaped head and return the dazed, bloody fledging to it’s panic stricken parents who are hanging around the nest, shouting with all their aviary might.

They then release the snake, a bit insulted- who does not offer anything by way of apology to any of the parties involved. Who cares for your petty stories and attachments? I know rock, I know sun, and I know a good meal. Who is the fool here?

Now there is one injured bird left in the nest and even still, I can’t hold back the hope that it will survive. That the mother and father get to see that one offspring fly away to a life of ruddy plumage announcing spring.

It’s a crazy wish and part of me longs to be more like the bull snake

but there they are side by side- cold-blooded facts and lofty hopes- battling it out for another day.

Earth Day

Out for a walk with my mother on the mother earth.

Acts of Creation

Acts of Creation
Aldo Leopold


Acts of creation are ordinarily reserved for gods and poets, but humbler folk may circumvent this restriction if they know how. To plant a pine, for example, one need be neither god nor poet; one need only own a good shovel. By virtue of this curious loophole in the rules, any clodhopper may say: Let there be a tree—and there will be one.
If his back be strong and his shovel sharp, there may eventually be ten thousand. And in the seventh year he may lean upon his shovel, and look upon his trees, and find them good.
God passed on his handiwork as early as the seventh day, but I notice He has since been rather noncommittal about its merits. I gather either that He spoke too soon, or that trees stand more looking upon than do fig leaves and firmaments.