Ice On

An early snow, brisk winds force only short outings for the two chihuahuas living under this roof, their thin tooties just not able to insulate, although Stray prefers nights out, his orange coat fully down and adapted from his feral days, now “domesticated” for what seems to be three years when we were adopted.

The bitter air comes early this year, overhead are heard the squawkings of southern bound geese, even in dark of night, the city light amplified by the low heavy clouds. Standing on the porch admiring the contrast of a running river against the semi-white embankments, imaginations of heavy snow has me donning skis for a riverside trek; then a fox slurries from Ruth’s blue spruces after hearing my boots crackle the icy wood below.

This morning Poppy heard silent howlings “Letmewin,” our six legs triggered to walk a maze to the sunny riverside door and calls greeted by a Stray after his trackings through five inches of teen degreed snow. Waggling hard pacing alongside the cat, smelling and kissing on what he imagines are remnants of meesies ingested overnight, Stray bold, gentle and without concern aims for the bowls of dry food that “those indoor kitties choose to eat,” and freshly milk poured.

Winter’s entry this year in the Hinterland has flavors of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, sort of racy and settling chords of inevitability, of the need to sustain a pace in order to exit the other side to springtime. Hunkering down was seen in this years festival of the oaks where spawned acorns suppled armies of squirrels and deer, and with the numerous birds who enjoy the black oil seed only to cache them away in remote locations that somehow they revisit in time.

Critters frequent the landscape between the house and river where comforts are numerous: Woodpeckers peckering on the downed trees whose demise the result of contiguous spring-time snow melts of overwhelming proportion, tree bases soaked and stifled, aforementioned fox, squirrel, days ago a deer languishing, snow on its back and sauntering between seed baskets and locating the cups of seed thrown in her direction, activity that generally is reserved for the nesting turkeys that have now retreated to the wind-protected refuges upstream.

This early winter deprived change in the leaves, instead stinging their green with seventeen degree air, curling and sizzling their hue away, many ash leaves left clinging, while the heavier oak leaves fully defoliated, the sun’s rising shadows, long, illuminate a river now frozen, with another night and subsequent morning, I have to ask “Where is Stray?”

Without Beer

Without beer, what is music –
Live, outdoors, wind swept sunsets, thousands
Forever seeking, redirecting, the music pours as a thin veil
Memories triggered, driving to Colorado,
a CD becomes a friend, its pulsed beats, revisited lyrics,
Evaluated players impressing, smiles, cheers
Waves of opulence stir emotions,
Without beer, what is music?

Abundance

With more, fear of loss, conservatism, not the relax of shared abundance.
With more, anxious pride, superiority, not humility nor secured comfort.
With more, righteousness is assembled to preserve their perfect world from dilution.
With more, new wealth segregate and climb into deserve, church fails.
With more, we seek greed, hate overwhelms, brotherhood transforms to selfish populism.

Serendipity

Staring up and dodging water droplets which fall as condensate, outside temperatures very cold
Guarding, resourceful, a desire to meaningfully contribute to a curious solution
Scratching ponder, a picture captures a moment with celebrity backdrop
Aside in a paused stand, politeness is manifested, then into the brown warmth a deep dive
Both iris glisten with a twinkle, a discovered past anticipated
Intentionally, interaction follows into a regular pattern of discovery, fingered words distant
Method new and mellow, into life’s return the slow goal.

My World Spins

My world spins
    sun illuminating fractionally
heated surface alternating obscuring clouds
    weather pulsing change, predictable(?)
dormant days, followed by extreme
    life folds into the available
inertia barely controlled
    patterns ephemeral
jet stream, eddied dissolve, stochastic
    elbows bleed in abrasion
death managed said the fool
    yet skies whisper inevitable
soon rises sun, daylight
    shattered, a tree branch splashes river running
floated drift,
    hosting the occasional reptile sunning
utility until tumble falls
    soaked, buoying deeper, soggy deteriorent
electricity gravity agents apparent
    particularly as lightnings strike.

Oak Leaves Fall

Shimmering rain, consistent melody, waning Gibbous split by the branches of a red pine tall, as a highway the river ushers fallen leaves downhill, their proximity consensus established eventually layering the river bottom below, coldest mid morning air yet, frost thin on adjacent roof top, a harmony of sun, moon, wind, water, trees, leaves, my two feet in slow riverside, accompanied by a sweet young chihuahua intent on living.

Riverside

Shared space, trees before I quietly fall, pushed over by winds wet, the dry rot recorded in its spring floods of old, box elder mostly while ash or willow provide crutch, western sun steepened by age, summers memories settle until shadows no more.

Neptune

Outer limit, first predicted, blue orb, methane, earth-like core, cold winds stir discourse, rings invisible 30 AU, on Moons shoulder.

First Flight

Sliding from the top of a large white balled light post, a robin’s perch precarious,
Squawk, squawwk, squawwwk, another two birds work distraction from nearby branches.

Stray-kitty ponders the toy morsel, plump from its Ma’s attentive feeding, worms abundant in this riverside haven, fresh rains have top soil moistened for the savvy winged workers.

Realizing an apparent ground fodder, I whisk the tired but wide-eyed cat from its playful perch looking down atop the hill and the young robin, he seemingly content to let the frightened youngster alone.

Wondering if bruised or maimed, I make periodic health checks between coffee sips, chihuahuas wrestle, and some email, the morning sun shining obliquely on this hallowed solstice day.

Mom now continues mild mannered chirping on a branch above, a blunted worm hanging from its mandible, but the babe now not obvious, however her tenor convinces me that all is fine.

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The grass cut, winters sugars exhausted, the shallow plane making for either small two legged or four legged critters a chance to bounce uninhibited across the cool damp morning grass, mom dropping down to the base of a favorite box elder, bushed heavily by spring growth, that worm an offering to the youngster who emerges unscathed.

Popping up and down with relative joy, baby bird wanders in and out of the sun and into tall green grasses, mom demonstrating flight to a vertical branch in a nearby tender pile which awaits a blazing, her cajoling bit by bit, by day’s end, nubile junior has become a master flyer.

Eventually

Eventually, all fossil fuels on Earth will be consumed, their gaseous byproducts absorbed in the atmosphere, some sequestered to the seas.

Eventually, all fissile elements on Earth will be depleted, technology designs slowing that depletion,  reliance on local energy innovated with necessity.

Eventually, the Earth will not support the requirements of the human species, as procuring water, air, and food become challenging, persons of higher class will manage self importance as rights that dominate.

Eventually, the meek will become blessed and the Earth will be their’s to inherit.

Eventually, the Sun will cycle in death to engulf the Earth, all memory lost to those generations whose progeny escape to other habitation.

Eventually.

Trumpeters

Flying high, wing span impressive, organized as a vee, their path intercepting, the work to get to this stage of the journey, the last hundred miles, not by chance.

Instinct and intuition alone is not enough to manage any of the abrupt delays in a trek north, gravity, fluid dynamics, and magnetism in control.

Gone now from overhead, their trumpeting persisting in a blue chilled sky, a river thaws below, Poppy circling as a toy bone is thrown repeatedly, his energy perpetual.

Blue blue eyes bright, watching watching the sky above, curiously resolving, knowing knowing that time stands still when darkness appears, wide eyed he let’s go into the pause of time.

R.I.P. Pappa

Punked Beat

It’s a drab Saturday afternoon,  most are dormant and disengaged from workday frenzy, light snow layers the spotty slick ice, a cold breeze cuts through my snow laden scarf, unobtrusive to any, walking is slowed by a tested concern for falling.

On the fringe of suburbia,  middle class houses straddle the road, I walk river in sight, nearing home, supplies packaged in a backpack, my center adjusted, returning from a grocery run, an excuse for exercise the motivation.

Ears muffled by two hats, the outer woolen and billed, my cadence shifts with sounding beats, gangster rap pulsing moderately, the low bass tones coherent, “Thump  Thump  Thump,” a vehicle’s rubber tires pierce the frozen sand embued surface and crackle a casual approach.

As a turquoise tinted olive sedan passes, a driver hidden behind the half opened darkened smoke window murmurs “Bang   Bang   Bang,” hinting manifested superiority at the pistol grip of a gun, my sprawled bloodied body now lifeless,  crimson melting icy white below, the punk not missing a beat continues his troll for the others deserving of his righteous requiem.

Hovering Birds

A busy bird day, mid-afternoon, the widest variety, collecting food with a vengeance, curiously after an ephemerally dense snowfall which followed the short-lived strokes of the sun, the valley’s chronic cloud cover responsible for an atypical run of sunless days.

The buckthorn, one of two that remain purposefully for diversity sake is discovered, the seed of frozen cherries the goal, like hummingbirds one species hover for an extended time while picking that fruit one by one, the tree’s canopy buzzing with action.

A black oil seed basket serving so many who share the resource, queued and rarely simultaneous, but persistent, hopping branch side and smashing the hull to ingest, or caching seed for surviving the thrills of a winter notorious for lingering well beyond February and March.

I imagine for the bitter winter survivor its a day by day challenge to consume energy and to make water, to nest as blizzards storm, or as Orion gleams brightest in the longest and coldest of nights, certainly its not an old bird’s game.

It could be that my own two wings and feathers deserve attention, survival never certain, winter blowing hard can unseat the most taloned of birds, the most prepared of creatures.

Alter (Old-Age)

Alter

Das aber ist des Alters Schöne,
Daß es die Saiten reiner stimmt,
Daß es der Lust der grellen Töne,
Dem Schmerz den herbsten Stachel nimmt.

Ermessen läßt sich und verstehen,
Die eigne mit der fremden Schuld,
Und wie auch rings die Dinge gehen,
Du lernst dich fassen in Geduld.

Die Ruhe kommt erfüllten Strebens,
Es schwindet des verfehlten Pein
Und also wird der Rest des Lebens
Ein sanftes Rückerinnern sein.

Old-Age

As I reflect at an older age,
I am less bothered by the unnecessary,
I take pleasure in the brightest significance,
while anticipating the bitterest sting.

Whatever the circumstances,
any who have regrets remaining,
seek forgiveness with best abilities’,
learning patience when reprieved.

Anticipate calm when persisting,
as dormant pain fades,
living eases into death,
and memories become gentle.

Alter by Ferdinand von Saar (1883-1906)
Interpretation of Alter for David DeMuth by his son David, 12/2016

Obfuscated Reality

His tribe, progress slow
The damp shaded forest, a shelter
Fired warmth limited, instead shivers managed under wooded bundles
They operate the moist darkness content that morning has come once more
Never forwarding beyond despair, never breeding knowledge.

An ordinary voice rings the horizon, catching latent attention
Fatigued, shivering, capacity for innovation challenged, eyes open with desire
Standing at the forest boundary, souls trusting submit
Alien possibility resonate with the cadence of the approaching machine
Hardened angst obfuscating reality, the loudest voice is heard.

Sequestered fears resolve into hope by the believers
A daily march begins toward fulfilled promise
Bias, righteousness typically necessary by each convert
While the displaced carry on numbly
Harshest is the reality that truth and equity are not goals.

Almost December

The air so damp, a mild breeze, barely
Resonation between the tree’s tentacles, electric
A condensate of precarious drops, large
Falling with candor, below branch only, cadence
No signal of ice, the river racing north, nearby.

Potential lost

Was it in a retreat, a grazed shot fired by a rightful hunter
Was it a poached attempt, an arrow
Was a parasite responsible, or other malady
His gait no more, sisters wander skittish without that watchful eye
Youth lost, hazard unknown, progress deferred until another time.

Sunlight Dancing

The constant harmony of the river’s waters, reflected sunlight dancing briskly, vaguely green and resilient leaves clingingly flutter in an unusual warm November breeze, not a cloud seen, soon stars bright above a crescent moon, mars on her shoulder.

Matthew

Days before the announcements, where will he land, beating the crowd we stow basics for three days, adding ice to our freezers, a generator on backup.

Weathermen, civic leaders pronouncing danger begging heeded warnings, mandatory evacuations in reality subjective, considered by any whose probabilities exceed threshold.

Where he’s been, devastations, unbearably the downtrodden recanoider, striving forward after being stung by nature.

Where he’ll go is certain, to dissipation but when?

There is solidarity across disasters for those who have fought their own battles, while the inexperienced might empathize fractionally.

Let us pray.

Cave Hill

Said: It is tragic that we do not have ready access to each other, how I pine for that random weekday autumn morning where we might visit Twice Told for a coffee, a top down ride through Cave Hill, a lakeside duck distracted conversation, and a stroll past the statuesque sisters.

Sphen: To remember those moments and so many more random times of joy, the quiet times without words, and the wonder of that silence:

Peace is yours.

Sabuda ala

– Feb. 8, 2025

Trotting Time

She runs, runs erect, runs direct, her cadence steady
Rhythm spawning contemplation, a mind focused
Past the blue spruce grove, alone, her dark two-tone drobe blending in ghost-like
There, in our presence, this unfamiliar runner trotting time away, step by step.

Heat

All those days previous summers lost to faded memory, some wrinkled others not, the exercise of long outdoor days, sculpting the fort castle inviting birds to feed, the constant pulse of a river running north, marking time that once was.

Skate

Doors of the rail car the only restriction, boyz emerging as opened, clunk click click, the eight bearings humming drag then a hook jump schradtch a thudded landing, smiling then circling back for another run, his buddy schradtch’n a thwack pumped he pounces on the board stopping as a Father and son snatch their sounding board / E line Denver

Snowbound

It was a late spring trip after a collaboration meeting in Oxford, measured events mimicking proton decay the topic, after jumping the channel Bill and I took into the Alps in a car, part of a five day tour, exploring villages, baguettes, and bris cheese cut and spread with our matching Swiss Armies, stopping overnight with each sunset where our Michelin map allowed, when deep into a long uphill road which we discovered as impassible, snow filling the span and blocking, yet melted, the wall being ten or more feet high, we retreated back down that long road in constant conversation.

Perhaps a Poem Written

Toward futures end, afterwards more honestly
In the ramblings consistently captured, with frequency and responsibility
Freed from the constraints of negotiated existence
Metaphors and description rolling naturally downhill, melting like heated ice
Self-deprecatingly the gods he is slave to are slain one by one

Perhaps someone agrees God is the fact that we exist
In that community perhaps that  their worships are otherwise

A provocative dichotomy requiring reason, emotion modified, while action seething disdain, retribution, and reaction becomes patience in exchange for digital longevity

Perhaps more reading becomes necessary .

The Book of Disquiet – 22

Absurdity is divine.

The Greatest

Seeing him mid to late afternoon near the University of Louisville’s student center humbly standing one afternoon at the rear of a short moving van, handing out the Quran, nearly no one around, must of been ‘85 left an impression that his intents were sincerely with love of humanity.

60 Minutes w/ Ed Bradley: http://www.cbsnews.com/videos/the-greatest/

Muhammad Ali / Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr.