Dawn on the Swale
—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
THANKSGIVING
Our first Thanksgiving here.
Eighteen-pound turkey for just the two of us.
We’d be eating leftovers for weeks.
Outside, morning fog mixed with smoke
from a pasture across the swale.
Bonfire and pit barbecue. Crowds of people
gathered, kids tossing balls. Tables set up
with folding chairs. Bowls of bounty.
We didn’t know those neighbors could have
so much family. Laughter filled the space
between, the chilly swale. I stood on our hill,
forgot my cooking, watching strangers
make merry of a festive day. The kids
were playing football on new-plowed field—
muddy-churned by running feet.
What a mess for cleanup! Laughing thanks
giving faces a glow as red as good
foothill earth. Why go back
inside my dark little house?
Sun through the last wisps of fog
turned everything golden.
Early Morning Swale
PLAYING TURKEY
For weeks of acorn-fall
eight wild turkeys paraded every morning,
mist or shine, patrolling our perimeters;
the big tom standing stonewall
so our Shepherd dogs detoured wide.
A week before Thanksgiving,
turkeys were gone. In that bumper wild-
turkey year, they disappeared
from roadsides, fields, oak edges. Gone.
You said turkeys keep calendar.
They play the odds.
For decades they’ve prospered here,
birds little-changed from their dinosaur
ancestors, learning to live among us,
playing by their understanding of the rules.
The turkey parade’s moved on—
that head-forward plug-along march
of survive and thrive.
Guide to the Golden State
CALIFORNIA—THE AMERICAN GUIDE SERIES
Federal Writers Project, WPA 1939
Our county’s on Tour 10a (Hwy 50).
From Bullion Bend, site of famous stagecoach
robbery, driving west down the mountain,
we come to Placerville and El Dorado, following
the old Carson Emigrant Trail blazed by
the Mormon Battalion. Next is Shingle Springs,
where gulches once were filled with miner’s
cabins. On to Clarksville, already abandoned
to broken stone walls and houses without roofs
or windows, just signs of old placer diggings
in the fields. Westward, to the old stage stop,
White Rock House—railroad flag station
when this tour-book came out. But how about
El Dorado Hills, and Cameron Park? How about
Sam’s Town? not built yet. How about
the Nisenan grinding rocks, existing long before
the WPA? You can’t trust a guide book,
even a mother’s summer road-trip bible, to keep
all of history—though the book’s first chapter
is entitled “El Dorado Up to Date.”
Indian Creek 1
THE CANADIAN EMBASSY IN MEISS
Morning cold as Canada. Googling Canada,
I get directions to the Canadian Embassy
in Meiss—Meiss as in El Dorado County,
California. Driving Mormon Emigrant Trail
eastbound on its long, climbing ridgeline,
I’ve seen the tiny road sign for the drop-off
down to Meiss, 5495 ft elevation, south
of Baltic Peak with its abandoned lookout.
Was Meiss a settlement, or just a cow camp?
Could folks live there year-round? Highway’s
barricaded shut all winter. Even in summer
I’ve never made that turn off to visit Meiss.
I google further. A local bail bondsman uses
its photo, maybe as incentive to get out of jail,
to a creek running through lush green meadow
fringed by Sierra conifers. I want to go there.
But the highway’s closed for the winter,
Meiss more unreachable than Canada.
Taco at the Lime Kiln
UNDER THE RUBBLE OF TIME
the old Diamond Springs Lime Plant
I knew this place as relic—abandoned
limestone processing plant. A tramway could
carry thirty tons per hour, precious
white stuff thundering over heads of motorists
dazed by the noise.
Now, the land’s repurposed, a transfer-
station for old trash. Swarms of pickups wait
to dump their loads. Tramway and lime-
kiln gone in the name of progress.
But I remember:
silent parody of a gazebo in broken
concrete and rebar—standing half-walls,
shafts dug into hill above a blindingly
white expanse of sand and lime.
We used to train our dogs there,
to search for people under earthquake
rubble. Those dogs are long gone now, too.
What to do, but dig down to old memory?
Where Are They?
WHERE DID THEY GO?
The first time I climbed this hill,
I followed my search dog up a rutted road,
wild brush fragrant on either side.
A whistle—unseen bird?
under a bluff blasted long ago by Gold Rush
miners—itinerants from many lands,
part of our town’s history. Where
did they come from, to tunnel under the hill
and finally daylight on the other side?
The next time I climbed this hill,
years later, my dog found homeless camped
among the brush. I heard a whistle—
lament for an old brick house left behind?
My dog and I kept moving, not
wanting to interrupt. I had no answer,
no prescription or remedy.
This hill is a gated community now.
Where did the homeless go?
Indian Creek 2
Today’s LittleNip:
AMONG THE FERALS
for Katy Brown
The cat who sly or shyly sent you thoughts
across strip-mall pavement—
the yellow cat, not even tarnished gold,
with short and crooked tail—
ancient cat of furtive choreograph
around your come-hither quiet—
cat who migrated from home to feral;
beggar, bramble for a bed—
the cat who at blink of a moment spoke
soundless his name to you—
alley cat transformed from wild to loved,
unreachable but for the eyes.
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine Thanksgiving feast, and with wishes to all of you for a day of contentment!
—Anonymous Photo of Anonymous Toms
(Celebrate the poetry that is Thanksgiving!)
(Celebrate the poetry that is Thanksgiving!)
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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