Once again the leaves were talking to me!

Rain spoke above the snarl of a four-wheeled swarm,

while bushes shook, like a wet dogs.

The slugs rushed for cover.

It was wonderful; Dog Shadow sparkled

and smiled at me as we sauntered along a trail.

What were the leaves and rain saying?

I didn’t understand it all, too many voices

but it was happy talk and wet smiles after so long.

The Aspens fluttered their leaves

to shower the Salmon berries, red and sweet.

I picked some and must go back for more.

Free dessert or just deserts? I had to look it up.

Shadow winked at me, eyebrows twinkling,

brown eyes full of questions I could not answer .

Black berry vines arch over the path, fruit still green but

promise a sweet harvest and bloody scratches!

The welcome reward Ice cream buckets a-brim.

Jam boiling in a cloud of steam and sticky spoons.

Deeper in the woods the sounds of traffic fade away.

My ringing ears mask the noise. I wished for silence

but am denied that joy, raucous Industry the thief.

A squirrel challenges and Shadow tries to climb his tree.

She never seems to learn that some things are beyond her,

one paw dangles , mouth wide open, red tongue lolling.

The squirrel skips to another tree. Honor is saved!

Then the leaves spoke again. This time a breeze brings

a deluge of drops lit by a sun beam passing through.

How wonderful light is, what gifts we are given.

The damp air easy to breathe, like Champaign!

My heart is grateful and Shadow smiles with me.

 
 
David Garlick, Sidney, July, 2008
 

“It hardly ever rains here, you know.”

The fields looked green to me,

snow glistened on mountain slopes,

puddles glinted on gravel roads.

Herefords, cubed brown, white blazes,

coats steaming, large dark eyes,

liquid but without curiosity.

Jaws moved stoically.

The river mutters against a snag.

Chatters over a pebbled bar.

Tree fingers drag the water

etching patterns on the surface.

Lower down, near the bay,

it slips along fast, deep, silent.

Behind dikes, in the marshland,

bulrushes march, water fowl hide.

The fens, mottled mauve, green and yellow;

enfolded by the bay’s ageless silt arms.

Sand bars and drift wood islands

suckle against the shallow shore.

Great Blue Herons in convention;

unimpressed by hawks overhead.

Vees of air borne waterfowl

honking, calling, “South, south the way.”

Ducks plucked from the sky

by fountains of shot and a

shower of colored cartridge cases.

Blasts of sound and silence

Dogs retrieve with bow waves of mist.

Sun cleaving a hole in the clouds.

A rainbow, one leg in the meadow.

Spectrum from light to death.

Not my game but several brace

migrate to the old tin shed,

to hang in untidy feathered bundles;

drips of bright blood on the wooden floor.

They were good, roasted in the oven.

Sage and onion stuffing; potatoes, gravy.

White wine and conversation.

Friends around a table.

Pulling crab rings; sun on back.

Greedy crustaceans pinned against mesh.

Dungeness crab escapes the pot,

carapace too narrow by a hair.

Thrown clear, they seem to wave

“Good bye,” till the next molt.

A splash and they sink

to wait in Natures larder.

Rock crab, red shells, huge claws

snapping and lunging, bubbling maws.

The joy of a personal harvest.

No ice, no displays, just hard work.

Evening time and misty rain.

Tree branches sing together;

high notes.  The last leaves of fall.

Thanks given for another year.

Early night, hot soup and bed.

Rain that pecks the trailer roof.

Wind driven drops, shot against windows.

A patter of drum beats, tree tears shed.

The owl hoots, I’m not sure which one.

I’ll look it up in the morning.

The dogs have gone home.

I go to sleep.

“It hardly ever rains here, you know.”

David Garlick, Dungeness River Flats, November, 1995