Sunset
—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
NIGHT’S DARK RIDERS
Guardians of night in our ridgetop house
where they’d hang all day, asleep in the wall.
The cat couldn’t catch even one bald-mouse
as they chirp, shake their wings to evening’s call.
Out they pour
from the eaves—night flight
of black-silk weavers
zapping bugs over the pond.
Above dark water they acrobat on hunt,
mapping a sky-path as they soar and dip,
echoing their vector between pine and oak,
guardians of night in our ridgetop house.
Guardians of night in our ridgetop house
where they’d hang all day, asleep in the wall.
The cat couldn’t catch even one bald-mouse
as they chirp, shake their wings to evening’s call.
Out they pour
from the eaves—night flight
of black-silk weavers
zapping bugs over the pond.
Above dark water they acrobat on hunt,
mapping a sky-path as they soar and dip,
echoing their vector between pine and oak,
guardians of night in our ridgetop house.
Sunset
FOUR O’CLOCK SHADOW
Who sleeps by day slips off to deepest night.
We know of bats no more than of our dead
who disappear with coming of the light
and hunt old haunts as sunset bleeds to red.
Four in the afternoon.
Forget dark zigzagging through dreams.
Don’t hang yourself
upside down in sleep, slip life to life.
The bats swoop out of eaves—our homey house—
to zap mosquitoes on the wing. They know
the night-shades and the coming dark-to-dawn,
to sleep by day, slip off to deepest night.
Window Spider
SPIDER-WEAVE
That sunny window stays festooned
for Halloween. Since late summer, silken
webs have grown from corner to corner, from
hubs where sit the eldest spiders, radiating
outward, networking in a triumph of spider-
weave. Sun makes gold and silver of the webs
that drape with the weight of dog-stirred
dust, with prey. Who dares break a thread
of these spinners, even after the witching
night? after the giant fake spiders are taken
down from haunted tunnels—the Gold Bug,
the old Priest Mine—packed away till
next Halloween. I’ve read, all the spiders
of earth in a single year consume in weight
the measure of all humankind. Have the
arachnids just been practicing on our flies?
In sleep I brush aside a filament of dream,
my hair reaching out in all directions
to intercept messages the stars in their
webbed constellations might send—
to me or to the spiders.
Hollow of Oaks
BEEHIVES AND DAWN
from D.R. Wagner’s poems on Medusa, 10/21/17
These are the voices—
when soft—of the questioning owls
above the voices of coyotes
in broken discourse with heaven.
They love black leaves
but tell no one.
One could spread its wings
and touch the nether
walls of night trees.
So quiet the sound soothes,
a moon song always known
the night long, asleep
in a small hollow of oak trees.
Everything seems a cloak
full of stars, night keeping
beehives and dawn.
On a Hill
MY DOG SAID
He needed to get out. We’d been driving—
past country club and 3-story homes tucked into
oak woods; new construction where I
used to walk my dogs. Hard to believe, so many
homeless in this town, throwbacks to living
without car, insurance, credit report, ID, phone.
Where do they camp in this world of fences
and no-trespass signs? I kept driving, looking for
a place to walk my dog. He reminded me,
again, of the laws of animal nature.
Asphalt climbed the campanile ridge to a dirt-
road pull-off. No sign forbidding trespass.
Not a footprint or tire-tread in dust.
Just a convention of crows in October light,
cacophony of wings. One said “this place
will be split-level with pool next year.” And off
they flew. I breathed the air and gave thanks
for a lightening of spirit while my dog
blessed the land in his own way. If I had to
choose, could I pitch a tarp-tent here?
October Sun-up
THE REEL IS TURNING
Fishing reel? spinning reel?—those old spinners,
the Fates. I think yours is a film reel in the misty
mysteries of brain. A film in sepia: a line of tiny
old women—you can’t make out their faces—all
in overcoats, an assortment of dumpy overcoats
(thrift store?) filing between you and the TV
turned on to tweed/herringbone static. Leftover
witches from Halloween? No, they look like real
people, diminished. Dim. The line keeps moving.
Women no taller than your old TV—nearly old
enough to have dials; but it’s controlled
by a remote. You long for a dial you could
control. The line of old people is out of control.
It won’t stop to answer questions. You question
me about the new med you’re on. Could it cause
hallucination? What do I know? Get up off
the couch. Out of your dream. Get moving. Call
your doctor if you must. It’s morning, October
sun’s up in the foothills. The Fates will snip
the yarn when they feel like it. Enjoy the fall
of leaves in real-live color.
October Oak
Today’s LittleNip:
EMU HAIKU
—Taylor Graham
prehistoric bird
out of place here—I’ll capture
him in a haiku
October Oak Woods
________________________
Many thanks to Taylor Graham for her bats and bees and other creatures of the woods, and to Katy Brown for her emu (see below)!
The Love Jones Experience takes place in Old Sac. tonight, 8pm, or head over to Poetry in Davis for Joe Wenderoth plus open mic, also 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
And my apologies to Rhony Bhopla for misidentifying her poem, "Identify", in the earliest edition of yesterday’s post. Thank you, Rhony, for letting me know early yesterday, so I could fix it!
—Medusa
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
Celebrate poetry—and emus!
For more about El Dorado County poetry, go to
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
to Medusa.
