little birds

those little birds
never seem to catch the crow--
spring clouds

Patch

I showed Bobby my brand new cowboy hat. It was the end of a long day on the patch. I bought it in Kildeer, up the line from Dickinson near Teddy Roosevelt's old haunts. I wanted to know what style it was, where it hailed from. Bobby was the eldest of a crew of Navajo carpenters from Arizona, a place better known for it's cowboy accouterments than any existence they might eke out there. Age wise, I was an elder, too, which may be why he tolerated my company. Bob sat still and eyed the prize, measuring it's weight and brim before he answered. It definitely had a presence, no doubt.
 

Just what I'd thought. Texas, damn straight, and a 10X besides. That means it's tall and sturdy, and can't be blocked no more. It was straw like a working man would wear with a resin coat to make it stand up and dyed white for the noon day heat. It fit good and snug, so it wouldn't blow away nor fall off in a tumble.

Bob, on the other hand, wore a modest black felt number, made when hats were as common as belts and suspenders. A 4X, which is far more pliable, so to give with the wind yet deflect the hard rain. Its slightly vague shape had been shifted many times.

I pointed to the crow's feather tucked in mine. It molted from one of those city crows that live where I come from, found in the alley next to my door just before I started on this journey. I'd kept it resting on the cowl of my Dodge 360 until that very day. I'd stuck it in the band for a little bit of luck. Cocked a little sideways, it had that hat have an outlaw flair.

That's when I confided to Bob how them city crows would squawk at me in their city dialect. Sometimes I'd talk back, or ask a question directly, I told him, by tone of voice or just the way I'd look. They'd turn their heads to eye me up, make some raspy call to alert their fellows, then resign themselves to clucking sounds as though chiding me. Or, maybe they were just sad. 

  Bob looked at the feather, me waiting, while neither of us spoke. After a time he declared it was medicine - it could even cure cancer!

I figure that's a good thing, 'cause I've been smokin' a lot more lately, you know?


the hawk moth sips
a last bit of nectar -
the Bakken and the shale

 

cornfield

 

 

 

 

 

 

         crows in the cornfield --
      the harvest in the nick of time

another day of rain

crow raises his wings;
their sheen in this sleet!
chill Autumn rain



 bright colours
predominate, a tint in green --
another day of rain

 a cry raised, a clamour
before these geese depart --
it's only a little rain!

 

 

F is for ...

We interrupt this blog to announce that Spain has set loose 16,000 alleged "riot" police in Barcelona to search for printed ballots for use in the upcoming referendum on Catalonia's secession from Spain. As of this report no slaves have been involved.

Spanish police have beaten citizens, with the full support of Brussels, and have already seized 10 million ballots. In response, thousands have taken to the streets in support of the October 1st independence vote. At Madrid's behest, the European Central Bank is purchasing all the Spanish Bond debt it can in an effort to show everything is hunky-dory and there's nothing to see here just move along. Reports that bank bail-ins are not imminent and are merely rumours have been highly exaggerated.

Catalonia represents a fifth of Spain’s 1.1-trillion-euro ($1.32 trillion) economy and enjoys wide self-government, although key areas such as infrastructure and taxes are in the hands of central authorities. The region has about 5.5 million eligible voters.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled Fascism.



hard times --
the autumn crows
worrying roadkill



**fun facts**: did you know that the ecb currently holds about 40% of all european union debt?

**daily brain-teaser**: who's going to buy that crap?


Defiant Catalans Block Spain’s Military Boats From Landing; Spain Seizes “.CAT” Domain

community

.



















A ‘flock’ of crows reside in the woods by my new school, or should I say I’m a new student? … they are obviously a family group, with their own distinct inflection of sounds when they call to each other. A bit different from the dialect of the city crows near my apartment, who have a hardened edginess to their communication. Are these city dwellers more stressed? Or is their stridency meant to overcome the noise and confusion of the humans rushing about beneath them? Perhaps they are a ‘murder’, a 'mob', or a 'gang' of crows?

I sometimes look for the Preserve’s crows as I cross the bridge by their wooded ground as I travel to and fro for a course in field biology. Even when I’m not thinking, trying to focus/not focus on my breathing, I can’t help but notice their antics or hear their friendly calls to one another. They happily disregard us, unlike the city crows, who seem to challenge us when Dottie and I take walks through the streets and alleys.

Dottie, Buddha that she is, remains unperturbed – unless, of course, the rabbit is about!

siblings
locked in mock battle!
winter crows




.

The Wheel: redux

Were their lives prearranged? But how can that be possible? I may or may not fear the truth. Actually, I don't fear much of anything at all anymore.

Our fate may already be sealed by the turn of some monolithic, cosmic wheel, for that matter, a record of the future written eons ago the deciding factor. Where's the point in dawdling in metaphysical claptrap? Although, it still can't explain when I saw her the first time.

In appearance she was very young. Her face, set just so, affected an innocence that mirrored the little boy's perfect features at her side exactly. Once she became aware I was watching - I doubt anything missed her attention - the corners of her mouth curling, jawline rising ever so slightly, exposing a flawless throat. For the briefest of moments I imagined her offering it like ripe fruit for the taking.

"This can't be", I thought. Had she just made a gesture? My cheeks flushed a little. What the Hell was I thinking? I hadn't looked away, however. Her eyes, and their gaze, were inescapable. No shame or remorse there. Near crystalline in perfection.

I couldn't be sure. There it was again! Something imperceptible, yet like an expectation, perhaps. Or, a clever deceit? Intuition, maybe, revealed in her best feature, belying calm and wisdom beyond her years, or mine, of an awful knowing Consciousness. I knew my presence aroused it.

I turned aside, mumbled some hurried excuse and walked away.


spring crows,
languid in their searching --
the old school ground



;;;

between crows

.


summer squall
a quarrel between crows
releases more rain



.

Agency Village

one by one
deer cross the highway, 
moon in every eye















medicine wheels--
through damp spring fog,
cairns of rough field stone

 frost on the window--
the day watcher's lookout
somewhere in the trees

Agency Village--
the eagle returns in daylight
  to inspect an old kill

hazy morning--
hungry sparrows in and out
an open door

lean times--
crows worrying
road kill

BIA 701--
country-western and native songs
through static on the radio

;;;;;;;

Patch

I was up in the oil patch when I showed Bobby, that old Navajo elder, my brand new cowboy hat. I wanted to know what part of the country it hailed from. It definitely had a distinct presence, no doubt about that, and not something I'd normally wear.

Just what I thought. Texas. Damn straight, Missie, and a 10X besides. What that means is it's tall and sturdy, and can't be blocked no more. It's straw, like a working man would wear, but with some kinda resin coating applied so to stand up to any kind of weather, dyed white, so to reflect that noon day heat. It fits real good, nice and snug, so it won't blow off in the wind nor fall off in a tumble.

Bob, on the other hand, he's gotta 4X, which is far more pliable, so as to give with the wind or the rain, and it's shape can be shifted to almost any form imaginable.

I pointed to the crow's feather tucked in mine. It molted from one of those city crows where I come from, found in the alley by my front door just before I started on this journey. I stuck it in there for a little bit of luck. Cocked to one side, it gave that hat more than a little bit of flair.

I told him how they sometimes talk to me in their guttural city voices. Sometimes I'd talk back. Maybe ask a question directly, in my tone of voice or the way I'd look. They might look back at me then, turn their heads to eye me curiously. Sometimes they'd cry out angrily, others plaintively, a clucking sound, lonely or sad. Trying to warn me, I thought, or, just maybe, trying to encourage?

He looked at it for a time, and then said it was medicine - it can cure cancer. I figure that's a good thing, 'cause I've been smokin' a lot more lately, you know?



the hawk moth takes
its last sip of nectar -
the Bakken and the shale

behaviors

I read a description of crow behavior today by a far flung friend of mine. Well, an acquaintance, maybe, though I wish she were a friend. Some of my interests and behavior may appear a little dodgy, in fact, as I tend to squawk without warning sometimes, often chasing after moon beams and lost causes, which can put some people off.

She was right about the crow's varying dialects, though - south of the Mississipi {at St. Paul, i.e.), I can detect a different inflection in their voice and language. And the city crows compared to the country ones, too. More raucous, though not what I would find entirely disagreeable.

In the day, family members and neighbors would complain about the crow's early rising habits, but I welcome anything that harmonizes so well with the trains in this town built from the rails, often on the cusp of dawn in the quiet solitude before a brazen world wakes from its slumber. Maybe their calls are a greeting, though more likely a warning, or perhaps they call to one another in an attempt to spur some confidence and strength to face another day. And I usually take heed when another loner bird speaks to me, which quite mysteriously happens from time to time - well, most times, I do.

once, the old crow
gave me a sign;
I should have listened



;;;

through autumn dusk
the computer wanes and hums
one hundred crows

The Wheel

Were their lives prearranged, I wonder? But how might that be possible? I may or may not fear the truth. Actually, I don't feel much of anything at all. Not anymore.

Our fate, for that matter, may have been sealed eons ago, the turn of some monolithic cosmic wheel the deciding factor. But, where's the point in dawdling in such metaphysical claptrap? Yet I still can't deny I saw something when, in that brief moment, I studied her closely for the first time.

She was so young - in appearance, at least. Her face, set just so, affecting an innocence that mirrored the little boy's perfect features exactly. Once she became aware I was watching, I doubt anything missed her attention, the corners of her mouth curling, jawline raised ever so slightly to expose her flawless throat ... for a moment I imagined she meant to offer it to me, like ripe fruit for the taking. "This can't be," I thought, my cheeks flushed and hot. "What the Hell am I thinking?"

I hadn't looked away, however. My eyes were captured by hers - blue, crystalline, inescapable - no shame or remorse laid there. But there it was again! I couldn't be so sure. Was this some sort of clever deceit? Nearly imperceptible - though I knew I had aroused it - an intuition, conjured from deep within her most intimate and revealing feature, consciousness, beyond her years, or even mine. An expectation perhaps, belying calm wisdom and yet an awful knowing. Clumsily, I turned aside, made some excuse and walked away. Yes. I was certain now.



autumn crows
languidly inspecting
the old school ground



;;;

Hard Times (redux)

  The supermarket's parking lot is only half full, cars and trucks clustered nearest the entrance, some rusty, older models on their last legs before a final journey to the scrapyard. They disgorge single mothers with scads of flustered children into the litter and detritus accumulated there, too daunting for an apathetic staff to keep up with. Heat shimmer rises from the pitted asphalt in waves - causing me to blink, and, feeling slightly dizzy - 

I imagine myself some sort of ominous bird soaring high above this scene, looking down on a checkerboard of white stripes and streetlamps, over the hot tar roofs, empty lots, the gas stations and rubble of defunct factories, land become idle, until the entire image takes on the orderliness of a hand sewn quilt thrown across the somnolent form of a great prairie, its amber grasses bent by breaths of wind that could sweep an entire continent clean.


hard times --
 a mob of crows
worrying road kill

;;;

.