Gravel crunches beneath my feet,
the meadowlark sings it's song,  
Low morning sun breaking upon the dawn.

Across the valley the back lit blue Cascades
majestically fence off the Eastern sky,
as if to hold back the light.
Mount Hood wears the emerging sun,
like a lighted crown upon her regal peak.

Out in the valley harvested golden wheat
fields stand side lighted and resplendent,
stalks shimmering with nighttime dew.  

Ground hovering Fog off the river,
to the eyes delight, rising with the sun.
Crisp clean air as Fall descends,
blowing chill breath around my ears.
Oh how sweet to be right here,
and look upon this sight.

montana yellow dress, the highway looked bitter sunday fit.
she knew the land given,
land taken,
thunder walking west.
met a friend. stopped to talk.
he was a holy kid or dog, both songs of kindness.
trickster cool mountain calf
waiting for the water promenade.
deep creek good old boy swimming smiles,
rose up
and shot like bang with the buzzard sioux feathers.
truth is low clouds flashing, dreams burst
in the earth room.
doused sheets of chaparral and canyon grass
a pretty laughing bird.
wet things watch the water-log, and a frog spits whiskey.
charter bus barefoot leather and a father says kids, smell the hammer,
see the hammer touch its words into the world.
work-tale living, fools bled.
river gal cut, oh
fishing.

FIVE HAIKU

1

At the last bus stop
a woman alights with child
a man waves to them

2

Two boys on the beach
quarrel over some pebbles
their mothers watch on

3  

Red late-autumn leaves
fall on old wooden benches
the park is empty

4

The crow on the roof
surveys its usual domain
It has not eaten

5  

Under the lamplight
a boy is kissing a girl
watched only by stars

I tried to tickle my vegan fancy
With bushels of quinoa and kale,
I was told no meat or dairy
Was the healthy Holy Grail.

But I was sad and hungry
With every burger I declined,
See me toss away my salad bowl,
I’m in a sirloin state of mind.

I filled my fridge with veggies,
Bean sprouts and legumes,
But I dreamt of pancetta
And links of sausage to consume.

Breakfast was plain yogurt
Lunch was collard greens,
Snacks were roasted edamame,
****, they’re just soy beans.

I was getting much too skinny,
My ribs were protruding,
I became short-tempered,
And was dark and brooding.

I covered all the mirrors,
I looked so pale and pasty,
All day I would salivate,
Craving something hot and tasty.

My vegan days are over
Enjoying pork chops, ham and bacon
I thought veggies were the answer,
But it seems I was mistaken.

Feel free to live off plants,
If you are so inclined,
But I’m firing up the grill,
I’m in a sirloin state of mind.

Old bucks eat late
Under harvest moons,
Leave the younger crowd
To chase the does
Before night falls,
And down they go
Before the hunter's bow.

Scarred and limping
They may be,
But old bucks are wise
To outlive generations
Of the young and strong
By patience
And by separation.

Eastern Montana prairies struggle
Too little rain,
Too much wind
Too much cold and heat.

In dire extremes
Living things have learned
To live a life of second chances,
Save some seeds from sprouting,
Produce more than can be used,
Find a quiet shelter from the wind to grow,
Never stand too tall against incessant wind,
(There's certain strength in being small)....

A cactus revels quietly in scarcities,
Flowering briefly,
Concealing water in a leather skin,
Resting in spiny clumps
Of resilient solitude.

Blue grama grasses
Curl toward the earth,
Decline the luxuries of height
To put on seed,
And stand in wiry toughness
Moving beneath sun and wind.

A weathered look befits exposure to the elements;
Gnarled branches speak the will to live;
Grasses, brown and speckled mark desperate thirst;
Frays and fissures delineate wins and losses
Against passing time.

Patience endures the ravagers' scorn.

We're walking as the sun begins
Its morning rise behind the trees
Just past our house
Joe and I,
Pond on our right,
Cars to the left,
Hill path curving
Up and out of sight.
Morning smells,
The call of geese,
The morning voice of robins,
Cars rushing,
Loud and soft and loud.

Our morning walk,
The route we know...
And the routine.

We do not talk, he and I,
Alone in our heads,
He with his man,
I with my dog thoughts.

This path is the path of years,
Slower now,
Still connected with a leather leash,
We stroll convinced of nothing
But the need to walk.

This morning's different, though...
Joe stops halfway up the morning hill,
Houses and our house below...behind,
Says, "Tuck, old boy,
Should we change this time?"
Stoops to look into my eyes,
Unsnaps the leash...
To my surprise.

His smile lets me see
That I am free.
"No need, I think," he says.

I turn and look back
Toward our house,
Think of geese now standing
On the dewy grass,
Observe the sunlight
Glisten on the stand of corn
Beside us,
Remember past enticing smells
Along the way....
A rabbit scent invites me
Off the path to stray....

Joe's moving now,
On up our hill.
I am standing on the path,
A little shocked and still.

A younger dog would run,
But habit's set its track;
Our mutual walk lies up ahead,
So, faithful now, I move
To walk beside my Joe,
Content to travel with a friend,
And let the running go....

Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?

And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?

And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?

On another note:
Rocks worn small form other stone,
Melted or crushed or aggregated
Into rock, again;

Trees from ash piles rise,
Requiring heat...
Seedlings released from cones,
Redeem the land in time.

Lakes do evaporate,
Their empty cups await
Rain or swelling springs
To come again.

"Hope is the thing with feathers,"
Our lonely Emily said,
And I hold fast her words,
When all seems dead.

Peace and Encouragement to You!

When you plunged
The light of Tuscany wavered
And swung through the pool
From top to bottom.

I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,
Your fine swimmer's back and shoulders
Surfacing and surfacing again
This year and every year since.

I sat dry-throated on the warm stones.
You were beyond me.
The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air
Thinned and disappointed.

Thank God for the slow loadening,
When I hold you now
We are close and deep
As the atmosphere on water.

My two hands are plumbed water.
You are my palpable, lithe
Otter of memory
In the pool of the moment,

Turning to swim on your back,
Each silent, thigh-shaking kick
Re-tilting the light,
Heaving the cool at your neck.

And suddenly you're out,
Back again, intent as ever,
Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt,
Printing the stones.

?

when an orange drops from the tree

in my garden

i do not leave it in the soil to rot

but gently pick it out and wash it

and place it in the fruit bowl .

there it stays upon the kitchen table

as if made to be admired !

and when it cannot be admired more

(having somewhat lost of its appeal)

i do not throw it out

as all ungrateful mothers' children do

i eat it and Thank God