066/365

The vixen is calling again in the night

Raspy anguished cries that hardly seem likely,

to my human presumptions,

to attract anything,

except my condolences.

And yet somewhere in the moon lit trees

her suitors are inevitably smiling

 

All around me things are shifting

creeks solid with ice and snow

suddenly crack and open,

wide and brown and vocal

People and animals and things, are taking wing and leaving

some, like gangly fledglings pushed from the nest

others gone but for the faint sound of distant beating wings.

 

Mostly, I can see the good

in sliced wrists and broken hearts,

returning to roots and spring cleaning lives

But there are moments when I'm bogged down

the fresh mud and thawing mounds of dogs' spent meals

mountains of expired food and piles of confused questions

collecting at my feet

The uncertainty of so many things I cannot control

a lesson in release and trust

 

These are the simple truths

The vixen will call, again and again

every spring

and the magpies will be busy at their nests all day

The same streams that meander in the heat of July will rage in March

and this too shall pass

Where there is change,

there is life.

 

 

 

018/365

The old man has died. 

Taken his slow and tired steps into the valley away from the crowd and laid down amongst the trees, signs of his last moments spent running against air and dreams as if chasing one last bovine opponent into the world beyond.

013/365

The scene initially looks macabre, a pile of still bodies at a wet entrance, still more resting easily within the sparkling snow around the hive.  But in this season, when the Chinook winds blow and the temperature climbs just slightly above freezing, this is a sign of life within.  This is what living and housekeeping  and (I would say) mourning looks like - if one were a honeybee.

005/365

They bravely climbed the steps today

a first among a day of firsts

up into the body of this yellow bus

 

Without the expected hug after hug after hug from the littlest one

With the expected stoic sureness of the oldest

-busy memorizing bus numbers and paths to his brothers classroom door-

With the unexpected nervousness tucked tight in their mama's belly

 

I do not know how such handsome bodies

have come from mine

Where their bravery comes from

Their never ending enthusiasm for the adventures of life

 

And yet they arrive home safely to me

spilling bodies and stories and smiles, from the yellow of this bus

at the end of a day spent steeped in new

and I see that they will do just fine

perfectly even

in this great big beautiful world



001/365 Bodies

My body, your body, their bodies.  Bodies of work.
Bodies of water. 
The goal?
Be expansive, interactive, inclusive, impulsive, inspiring, compelling. Speak truth, explore fantasy.  Document.